


save it for a rainy day

by honeyyhop



Series: The First Ones [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dream Smp, Impulse fic, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pain, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Rejection, i mean REALLY hurt, this is gonna hurt i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyhop/pseuds/honeyyhop
Summary: "But even in my dreamsI still don’t know the difference betweenWhat it is I want and what it is I need...I want the catharsis of knowingSomething bad’s about to happenBut also knowing that I can’t do anything about it"- Banks, LincolnBoth Dream and Sapnap are cursed - one by the Gods, his old brethren, the other by his own foolish heart. Both of them yearning for their King.But when it comes to George, even curses can be broken.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnotfound
Series: The First Ones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072937
Comments: 19
Kudos: 78





	1. what you want

_ “But even in my dreams, I still don’t know the difference between what it is I want and what it is I need.” _

_ \-- Banks, Lincoln  _

  
  


_ What do I want?  _

Sapnap has always been asking himself that. For most of his life, he’s felt as if he’s been watching himself through a sheet of glass, trying to alter his own path from outside his body. He gave himself his nickname, his brand, and stepped into another life. He’s been stepping over the line, dancing beyond his responsibilities, pushing the limits, for most of his life. What he  _ needs  _ seems clear at times, but he always seems to stray far from what is expected of him. That’s his entire brand, he supposes,  _ playing with fire.  _

They don’t know the half of it. 

Through that murky, fogged glass, he struggles to define between what he wants, and what he needs. They seem to blur together, go hand in hand. He wants to imagine that he doesn’t need his King - doesn’t want him, either. 

But some things are undeniable. 

Unpredictable. 

He’s been friends with George for far longer than he’s been his knight - that’s just another title, to him, just another symbol of his loyalty. What they share - or, rather, what Sapnap sees in him runs deeper than royal obligations. 

Usually, it’s easy to ignore the fire in his gut - when he’s angled to face away from George, monitoring his guests, shielding his body from potential threats, he doesn’t feel it. Even engaged in dry conversation, it slumbers, and Sapnap can almost convince himself that there’s nothing there. 

Almost. 

But then there’s moments when their eyes meet, usually from across the room, those sacred, secret glances that burn Sapnap from the inside out and he can’t feel anything but the buzzing in his ears and the pounding in his heart. Those slow blinks, wry gazes that Sapnap feels are dedicated to him and to him alone. When George looks at him, and is not seeing his loyal knight, but merely seeing  _ him -  _ that’s what Sapnap treasures most of all. 

He knows it's foolish - he’s been told too many times to keep his head out of the clouds. He’s been too obvious with his thoughts as of late, and even Dream has begun to notice. Dream, with his sandy curls and green eyes that never stop watching. Never stop searching. Sapnap often catches himself wondering what Dream has been looking for through all of their years. They’ve been friends for so long, the three of them - Sapnap, George and Dream, the perfect triangle. But even as teens, lanky and eager, exploring the new world stretched out before them, their motivations had been murky. Sapnap had known he craved freedom, the open sky and sea on his skin, but beyond that, he knew nothing of what his journey would hold, or why he was so desperate to stay with his newfound friends. Dream wasn’t exactly an open child. It took him years to take off the mask he always wore around them - and, seeing his face for the first time, Sapnap had been struck by the hardness in his eyes. As if he’s seen too much - and it never fades, even now, as adults. He’s quiet, and solemn, and  _ damn confusing,  _ if Sapnap has to be honest with himself. 

Dream sees too much - and his eyes burn when he catches sight of Sapnap, lost in his own hopeless thoughts. They look at each other, and there’s some kind of unspoken warning between them. 

He  _ knows _ . 

Sapnap comes to this realisation at a ball hosted by George himself, in a desperate attempt to appease the growing tensions throughout the land, although Sapnap knows as well as anybody that his King’s control over his kingdom is slipping through his fingers with every passing day. He and Dream are positioned at opposite ends of the hall, leaning against pillars, their eyes roaming through the guests, sifting through potential threats - a fight could erupt at any moment, and an attempt on George’s life isn’t entirely impossible. Sapnap’s gaze settles on a few people of interest - and across the room, he knows that Dream is doing the same thing. 

Tommy and Tubbo - Tubbo, in particular, the President of L’Manburg, sitting and laughing. Quackity sits on the same table - and so does Fundy. Dream’s gaze is focused there, but Sapnap can’t tell whether it’s merely calculating, strategising, or  _ curiosity.  _ What interest has he found in the old, crumbling remains of L’Manburg? 

It seems complicated.

_ Everything  _ is complicated - Sapnap can’t fool himself into thinking he’s the only one struggling with his own emotions. In the fabric of the world, he is nothing but a current, a thread - miniscule. 

Quackity says something that sends the entire table into laughter. 

Sapnap watches Tommy and Tubbo - everyone always warns folks to look out for Tommy. Tommy, the wildcard - he’s unpredictable, uncontrollable. But it’s Tubbo who he thinks will be the real threat. He and Dream have discussed it multiple times already, gossiping about threats to the crown, their King - and  _ his  _ power. Power, because George is King, but Dream is something  _ more _ . 

No, it’s Tubbo they need to keep under control - and Sapnap supposes that, inevitably, where Tubbo is involved, Tommy is, too, in one way or another. 

He slumps, slightly, struggling to keep his eyes open. He has to force himself to stay alert, to never stop watching. Everything seems calm, now, but it won’t stay that way for long - things have a way of crumbling around his feet when he is around. 

Inevitably, it will all unravel. 

With every peculiar shadow or flicker of light, Sapnap shifts in unease. He’s seeing ghosts and phantoms where there’s nothing but emptiness. He would never admit it, but he’s shaken by the War for L’Manburg. He loves the thrill of battle, fighting, but strange things were left behind after that battle, more than blood and bones. Dream had forced George to stay behind - thank God for that - but now Sapnap can’t shake the feeling that  _ something  _ in the world was altered in the chaos. 

Sapnap doesn’t want to have to worry about the dead as well as the living. But things are different, now. 

His eyes, inevitably, drift to his King. 

His heart twists.

George isn’t even trying to hide his fatigue, eyes half-lidded where he’s curled in his throne. His robe is draped behind him, pooling on the floor in ripples of red, one hand curled in his lap, the other cupping his cheek. His dark hair is gelled back for the night, his crown slipping, lashes quivering as he struggles to stay awake. He seems bored - thankfully, not many are paying attention to him, supervising the night from a distance, but Sapnap still feels himself moving before he can think it over. 

They needed extra eyes for the ball to support George - Dream was willing to hire the help they needed - and so Punz is positioned directly beside the throne. Sapnap takes him by the arm and hisses in his ear. 

“Switch with me.”

“Wh-”

“Do it.” 

“You’re not my superior,” Punz says quickly. His eyes flash towards Dream, perhaps one of the only people that Punz is willing to be swayed by. He pays good money - and Punz has been their allies many times in various different wars. Sapnap has to respect him, but for tonight, he’s nothing but another obstacle on his path to…

_ Him. _

George sits up, watching them intently. 

“I’ll make him pay extra, man.  _ Move.”  _

Punz slips away, and Sapnap leans against the wall beside the throne, arms folded over his chest. His breathing catches and George turns, slightly, to look at him. He adjusts his crown. Strands of hair are springing free, falling over his eyes.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Your highness” he replies breathlessly. “You looked like you were falling asleep, so I… I figured… you’re in need of a steady source of entertainment.” 

“That obvious?” 

“It’s hard to miss.” 

George’s laugh is quiet, and tentative. The ball drowns it out. 

“So you came to keep me awake?” 

“That’s it, yeah.” He allows himself a grin. “Is your own creation  _ that boring?”  _

“You’d be falling asleep too.” 

“Is it too early to dance? Just dance. Isn’t that what a ball  _ is?”  _

“I think, technically, it’s  _ actually-”  _

“Save it,  _ your highness. _ ” Then he feels bad, and adds, “no pressure.” 

George leaned back, seeming reluctant. “They’re having fun, anyway. No one’s killing each other. That’s a personal win.”

Sapnap has to give him that. For as long as he’s been King, it’s been Dream who strategises and plans, who guides him through every conflict and war - and it’s been George struggling to keep the peace. Even Sapnap can admit that he’s not the best at taking control and keeping power. As a King, he couldn’t function without Dream. 

His ball is, thus, a symbol of unity through all nations. 

Sapnap, despite himself, slides closer, practically leaning against the throne. He grins. “I’m surprised they aren’t at each other's throats.” 

If the rogue who called himself Technoblade  _ was _ there, a fight would have been guaranteed. Even Tommy is glaring at Dream from a distance. He clearly hasn’t forgotten who he had been fighting in the War against L’Manburg. 

“Mhm,” George says, swallowing, seemingly suddenly nervous.

“Don’t worry. We have this all under control. Nothing’s going wrong tonight.” 

“Yeah, I…” 

  
“There’s no TNT under the castle.” His eyes gleam. “We checked.” 

Their knuckles brush, and Sapnap tries to keep his face neutral, his lips pursed. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what he’s  _ doing _ to himself. Dream and George are his friends, and his fate might always be interwoven with theirs, but he’s spent more time with Quackity and Karl as of late. With every passing day, every moment, he feels himself wandering blindly further and further away from his childhood with Dream and George; for so many years, he’s been living for them rather than himself. His loyalty and his position depend on serving a King that relies on him - and it’s nice to feel needed, anyway. 

If he’s so sure of himself, he’d just leave. He’d go into the wild, free and spirited, and never let his heart dangle from the fingers of anyone, ever again. 

But… 

He looks at George, soft-spoken and tender in public, almost shy, but in the private, dark corners of any room, alone, his smile glows like lamplight and every breath he takes is poetry. Sapnap’s never been this way before - no one has ever startled him into such  _ silence _ .

“I’m not quite doing this right,” George says, voice low, and Sapnap knows at once that he isn’t talking about the ball. 

His fingers are moving before he can hesitate, grazing George’s palm to squeeze his hand. It’s intended as a brief gesture - that’s what he’s trying to tell himself - but it lingers. Longer than he means for it to. “Don’t fret so much, George, you’re doing fine.”

“I’m doing sh-” 

He bites down his curse. George tries to keep his language clean, at least in public - it’s a different story when it’s only the pair of them. In their youth, George had the foulest mouth of the trio. Being King changes things. They all have responsibilities, burdens, reputations to maintain.

Their hands are still folded together. 

Sapnap draws away reluctantly, feeling his heart tremble with that tiny whisper of connection. George furrows his brows slightly, the only sign that he had felt something,  _ anything  _ in those brief moments.

“Cross my heart,” Sapnap says hastily, motioning to his chest, cutting into the impish music that’s now swinging through the hall. The band is clearly building up to something, and the guests can feel it, too. They’ve begun to roam around the hall, mingling and chatting eagerly. 

“That’s a serious vow,” George muses, leaning back, waving his hand playfully. He has to adjust his crown when he bobs his head. 

“I’m a serious guy.” 

“And if I asked you to swear to something else?” 

Sapnap inclines his chin, but the words send chills skittering down his spine. “Like what?” 

George’s eyes flicker. “That we’re all gonna be okay.”

He can’t place the pit sinking into his stomach, that churning feeling of…  _ disappointment?  _ Maybe he expected something else. Or just wanted so desperately for the conversation to lead elsewhere. 

“All?” 

“You. Me. Dream. Swear that we’ll be okay.” 

So Sapnap isn’t the only one to feel the tension fracturing a space between the trio. George is more perceptive than he gives him credit for, and of course only an idiot wouldn’t be able to tell that they aren’t as close as they used to be. It might be his fault, he thinks. Definitely could be. He’s no stranger to Dream trying to keep George safe - and Dream isn’t exactly blind, even with his mask. He’s seen Sapnap staring. It’s no wonder that there’s a line between all of them, one that even Sapnap struggles to cross. 

He has no excuse anymore. He doesn’t want to be the reason George loses his friends. 

“Cross my heart,” he repeats, and this time he traces the shape over his chest, carving his promise into the empty air. 

And even now, he feels eyes beating against his back. Dream is watching. He slumps against the wall, quietly, in defeat. He has to restrain himself from trying again, trying to keep George’s attention on him. Despite himself, he  _ wants  _ it to be on him, and only him. He wants George to look at him, and see someone he can’t live without. 

How delusional of him.

George just bobs his head in a nod, agreeing. He’s trying to brush stray dark hairs out of his face, trying to gather his composure once again. Sapnap swallows, one hand on his sword as George tilts his head to one side, his smile crooked. “Do I look alright?” 

A trap. It has to be a trap.

“Just…” He reaches out with a hand and tucks those stray hairs behind George’s ears, trying not to let his fingers drift against his temple for longer than necessary. He draws away, trying to shake his nerves. There’s nothing suspicious about a knight helping his King - right?

“There. You look exceptional,” he manages. “As per normal.”

It’s said with sarcastic intent, teasing to hide his pounding heart, but his voice crumbles slightly. Even George seems startled by his sincerity. 

“Well, how could I not trust you?” George says, blinking. “I think this is as good of a time as any to make a fool of myself.”

He gets to his feet, clapping. The attention of the hall turns to the King - and how, Sapnap wonders, could they watch the way he holds himself, awkwardly, hands clasped together, without feeling some kind of  _ pull?  _ How could they see his flushed cheeks, thin lips, warm eyes, and not be willing to do anything for him? Or maybe it’s just him. Perhaps he’s alone in that regard. 

He risks a glance in Dream’s direction, and his fellow knight meets his eyes. Even through the mask, he can sense disapproval coming off him in waves. 

George’s speech fades into a startled buzz as Sapnap is pinned into place by that judgement. Struck by the realisation that Dream is  _ aware _ .

And that kind of information isn’t the kind that Sapnap trusts his friend to keep safe. Anything else, and he’d willingly give it up to Dream. Not this. Anything but this. 

For the first time, Sapnap is forced to consider  _ why  _ Dream watches with such a burning intensity, the kind that can be communicated without even seeing his eyes. 

Dream watches George, too, and at first it’s easy to mistake his cocked head and folded arms for disinterest, or even concern for his King. Sapnap turns his head away slightly, but he can still see him in the corner of his vision, and now Dream monitors George lazily, not with the stance of an alert knight, but as nothing more than a passerby - _admiring_ him. 

Watching him selfishly, contentedly. Something that Sapnap is never quite able to do - he can’t look at George without feeling some kind of shame, without the feeling that he’s betraying his friends by even searching for him in the first place. He wants to, Hell, he does. 

For a moment, George looks at him, and the haze shatters and it is him, and  _ only  _ him. There’s nothing but the two of them in the dark, alone, looking at each other. 

Sapnap doesn’t say a word, but he’s trying to communicate with his eyes the strange, unfamiliar yearning in his chest, the dark, burning jealousy that seizes him. He’s pleading with George’s soft gaze, asking him: 

_ You, too?  _

It’s only the King, and his Knight, and the silence that goes on and on. 

Oh, it’s fucking  _ laughable,  _ if Sapnap dares to think about it for too long. 

“And now,” George says, never breaking his stare,  _ “we dance.” _

There’s a heartbeat where Sapnap convinces himself that George’s pause is for him, and him alone, a silent invitation for him to - what, join him? He knows that’s impossible. Hell, he wants to. If he was wholly selfish, he’d drop his bullshit act and dance with George the way he so badly wants to, but there’s always that line he’s been afraid to cross. And with Dream watching him so intently, he fears for the aftermath. 

For all of his life, he’s been playing with fire, crossing the lines, pushing the boundaries. George is one of the only things to make him truly hesitate. 

Sapnap can’t move. 

Doesn’t move.

He finally looks away and Sapnap leans against the wall, trying to blink himself out of whatever the Hell  _ that  _ was. He curses himself for hesitating. 

The crowd parts for George as he strides down the stairs, his red robes pooling behind him.

If he moved - 

Well, he’d be in deep shit, but putting that aside, he could be dancing with George; wouldn’t that make everything worth it? 

But he still doesn’t do a damn thing. 

He watches as George takes some Princess he never bothered to learn the name of - he should have - by the hand and swoops her into a dance. The music swells, high and triumphant, and at George’s movement, the rest of his guests surge around him, finding their partners and leading them into eager, delightful dances. 

He slowly becomes aware of someone by his side, and turns to look at Dream. Despite the mask covering most of his features, it’s easy to tell he’s unimpressed from his lips pressed into a grim line and his messy hair, as if he’s been running his hands through it. 

Sapnap grins; his wild terror of the whole situation brings some of the old swagger of his youth back. “What’s up?”

“Dance.  _ Now _ ,” Dream says, beckoning Sapnap. His tone doesn’t leave anything up to debate, but Sapnap argues anyway. Perhaps he’s looking for an excuse to fight. 

“As if you get to order me around, man. We have the same rank in this court.” 

“Oh, come, now, you know that’s not quite true.” 

His eyes flash towards George. He wishes it isn’t. He doesn’t want to be the third wheel - the one that watches while his friends get their happy endings.

“I have a job to do, and so do you,” he counters, folding his arms. 

“There are enough guards around to spare us.” 

True. “Not as skilled as us.” 

“As  _ me.”  _

“Spoken like a typical fucking Leo,” Sapnap snorts, and trails him onto the dance floor. In the crowd, surrounded by the music, their conversation will be harder to hear - and, particularly, harder for George to notice. Dream places one hand on his shoulder, the other curled around his wrist, and leans in close. Close enough for Sapnap to see his freckles crinkling with every word. 

“You have to stop this.” 

His voice is a whisper against Sapnap’s ear as he spins him, moving to the beat of the song. 

“Stop what?”

He tries to seem innocent, nothing but a knight flustered by a dance. Dream smiles wryly. It’s no stranger that twirls him around - it’s still his friend. They’re still  _ close,  _ not as much as they had been as children, but that bond is still there. He just wants Dream to shut up, and just dance without those sharp, hushed words. “Stop being an  _ idiot.  _ What do you think is going to happen when George finds out? When  _ L’Manburg _ finds out? You think they won’t see that kind of weakness in our walls and  _ use  _ it?” 

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Sapnap says flippantly. His movements are slightly awkward, bumbling through the dance; Dream moves as if he was born to take center stage. 

“Quit playing dumb.” 

“Seriously-” 

Dream pauses to dip him, arms braced around his back. Quietly, as he is hauled back up to come nose to nose with his friend, Sapnap tries to steer the conversation away from George. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“Where did  _ you  _ learn to dance?”

“I _ didn’t.  _ And I’m currently praying that you don’t  _ drop  _ me, Dream.” 

“I won’t!” Dream grins, and he wonders how he was ever frustrated with his friend in the first place. He has a habit of doing that, Sapnap’s come to realise over the years - of winning people over with nothing but smooth talk and a confident smile. He tries not to let it drag him into a false sense of security. 

“So where  _ did  _ you-” 

“A friend thought it would be worth my while to learn. And was willing to practice with me to make it happen.” 

He sways his hips, if only to prove his point, and Sapnap scowls.  _ Which friend?  _ Dream has many allies, but they come and go like the wind. It’s harder to pinpoint his friendships - save for him and George, since after so many years, their trio is practically infinite.

That’s what he tries to tell himself. Some days, he’s not so sure. 

Hold on -  _ George _ . 

“Did he-” 

“Keep your voice down,” Dream hisses, steering Sapnap away from George, who is dancing in their general direction without knowing it. He’s with Callahan now. “And stop trying to change the subject!”

“I’m not-” 

“You  _ are.  _ Sapnap, I’m doing this because I care about you - can’t you see that?” 

“Nope.” 

“You must be pretty blind, then. This is going to  _ hurt you.  _ You are going to get  _ hurt.”  _

_ I know.  _

“It’s not your place to tell me that.” He’s trying to keep his voice low. “Stay  _ out  _ of this, Dream. It’s none of your business-” 

“You’re making it my, and  _ everyone else’s  _ business, right now. Think about  _ anyone  _ but yourself, Sapnap - just think about what you’re doing. Please - for once - use your  _ brain.”  _

“You know me better than anyone; you  _ know  _ I don’t have a brain.” He’s trying to joke, but Dream never breaks eye contact, despite his mask; his stare cuts through it. 

“Do you really think that it’s a good idea to give  _ them  _ a way to hurt George? A weakness?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder as he spins Sapnap around. By now, those around them have changed dancing partners multiple times. The gesture, in particular, is directed at Tommy, who is determinedly dancing alone despite Tubbo’s offers to join him. “They’ll rip you and George to shreds.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Sapnap. We’re talking about Wilbur’s legacy here - his _unfinished symphony._ I know - I helped him do it. I doubt Tubbo ever wants to risk anything happening to his precious L’Manburg. I can only imagine what _Tommy_ would do if he ever realised that you could be used as _leverage,_ as _bait._ I don’t want you hurt. Neither does George - and God help me, Sapnap, I hate to say it, but those people know as well as I do how to hurt someone. You don’t just use weapons. You go for the heart, where it _really_ hurts. You’ll be used to get to George, to get to his power. And then no one comes out alive, or happy. The kingdom falls - you never get your _happy ending,_ not as long as he’s King. Take it from me.” 

Sapnap is stunned into silence. The music comes to a wild, dizzying halt, and the quiet is eating him alive. Dream’s right - he’s always right, in his own cruel way. They’re nose to nose, breathing heavily from the dance, and all at once Sapnap shoves away from him and a new song picks up a cheerful melody. 

Dream’s voice goes suddenly quiet as his hand locks around his wrist. “Please. Please, Sapnap - if not for him - then for me -” 

Dream doesn’t beg for anything. Doesn’t falter, doesn’t plead - not for anything but… 

But for George.

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

“I see,” he says, straightening, brushing stray dust from his armour. “So that’s - so you -” 

So he’s not the only one keeping secrets tucked away under his skin. 

But when he looks at Dream, he’s not seeing a threat, a rival. That’s still his best friend. They spent their childhood together. It wasn’t until they were both so close to George that they began to see cracks in their bond - but nothing’s changed. It’s the same handsome face looking back at him. 

_ This doesn’t change anything.  _

_ Right?  _

He remembers the way Dream watched George in the early hours of the night. The pounding in his chest, his head, grows into a roar. “You  _ hypocrite.”  _

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t  _ act _ on a single thing.” Dream’s suddenly talking too fast, stumbling over his words, trying to keep Sapnap quiet. “You were five seconds away from doing something you would _ very much regret  _ with George.” 

The night shatters and splinters around him, and Sapnap is walking. The music fades away, leaving a swarm of eager chattering. The band plucks a mellow note and it rings, on and on, pacing the hall. It chases him away.

From a world away, muffled, trying to keep his voice low, he hears George. Despite himself, he risks a glance over his shoulder. Dream, barely taller than George despite him being so damn lanky, steers his King away from the crowd, to the outskirts of the dance floor. He hears snatches of anxious voices. 

“Is everything okay?” 

Dream is trying to soothe him, trying to convince him that there’s nothing wrong. Their friendship is as strong as ever. 

Lies. Dream has a way of avoiding the truth without outright lying, but Sapnap, he  _ promised  _ his King that they would be okay. He has vowed and crossed his heart that the three of them would not break, no matter what happens. 

Dream had made no such vow.

He finds a wall and slumps against it, trying to adopt the slouched posture of a lazy, disinterested knight, perhaps one that doesn’t care about anything at all. 

Sounds about right.

He senses Punz watching him, and deliberately averts his gaze. He’s not interested in unwanted questions - doesn’t think he could answer them without yelling, anyway. When he’s angry, he yells. When he’s sad, he yells. 

His brand, yes, has always been that angry, impulsive, brash fire. Tonight, it consumes him. He doesn’t feel anything but that writhing pit of bitterness - unfair. It’s all so unfair. 

George is nothing but gentle rainfall. He doesn’t deserve this. His rain - the only thing that makes his flame falter, even for a second. He shuffles closer without meaning to, enough to hear Dream, his voice low. 

“Just a normal quarrel, George. We’re still the same guys you know and love.”

And as Sapnap watches, the band gives another desperate, keening note on the violin - and so the hall is swept into a melancholic melody, both sweet and mournful. There’s a deliberate, shaking heartbeat of hesitation, as if everyone is frozen by the slow tune. After a beat of silence, and Sapnap himself doesn’t dare to move, lest he disturb this sudden enchantment, the band lunges into the song. The guests beckon to their close friends and partners to slow dance. 

Dream makes to move away, but in a sudden, desperate movement, George has him by the hand and is tugging him back to the dance floor. “Dance with me?”

And, to his credit, Dream inclines his head slightly. He knows exactly where Sapnap is. And he hesitates enough for him to know that he originally had no intention of dancing with George tonight. 

Despite that, whatever his intentions were, there’s no mistaking the blush peeking out from below Dream’s mask.

“I…” 

“Let me rephrase.” George’s voice goes soft. “Dance with me, Dream. That’s an order.”

There’s something so beautiful about the easy way George’s hand curls around Dream’s waist, instantly guiding him into place. He’s a King, of course, and he dances like one, despite the awkward and bumbling way that he holds himself in any other situation, he’s elegant and poised on the dance floor. The way he clings to Dream, his grip tight, claiming him as no one but  _ his  _ \- it’s so easy, as if he was born to love him. Doomed from the very beginning. 

Beautiful - 

And sickening. 

His rain, caught in a slow dance with Death. 

And it’s at that moment that Sapnap realises that George was never his. He never had any right to claim that George was ever anything to him - no right to lure himself into thinking that he’s anything more than a knight to the King. 

He had  _ believed _ , damn him. Fallen right into that smile, those eyes. Now - now, he reminds himself, this is what he deserves. To watch them hold each other, dance with each other as if there was no one else in the world. He deserves that punishment for being, in Dream’s words,  _ ‘such an idiot’. _ If Dream holds a shred of guilt for hurling his attention and care wholly into George, he doesn’t show it. 

Hypocrite.  _ Hypocrite.  _

_ That could be me. _

But, Sapnap realises, it  _ wouldn’t _ . Even if it had been him to end up pressed against George, their fingers intertwined, resting against his hips, George would not look at him like that.

And never would. 

The music fades away, and the silence goes on and on. Those secret glances they shared are nothing but delusions, the frantic whispers of wishes that would never come true. Sapnap sees that, now, in a startling sense of clarity. It’s so damn obvious. 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, the angry, churning pit in his stomach, his head. Can feel it closing in, drowning out the music - that gorgeous tune that makes him want to throw something or dance in the pouring rain or  _ both.  _ Defeat bubbles in his chest and overflows, pouring through him, and he slumps, curling in on himself. Against the wall, he just seems tired. He supposes that’s true enough. He’s so fucking exhausted. Everything is insisting for him to  _ do something  _ \- but what could he do? There’s nothing to be done. 

He can’t move. 

The dance ends with a low, gentle, trembling note from a violin, and both George and Dream are nose to nose, breathless. Slowly, fumbling for a sense of control, they pull apart. They don’t speak a single word. Dream merely bows, his sandy hair bouncing, and makes for the door, still panting. 

He passes Sapnap. There’s a moment when he turns, and they merely stare at each other.

Sapnap’s voice cracks. “Why?” 

“I’m sorry,” Dream says helplessly, but he barely hears it. “I… I followed orders.” 

“You weren’t ordered to  _ fall in love,  _ damn it!” It’s a struggle to keep his voice low.

“Nor were you.” 

“You said all of those awful things, and then you turned around and danced with him anyway. You knew-” 

“I couldn’t exactly say  _ no,  _ Sapnap. God, what do you want from me?” 

“You enjoyed every second of it. Admit it - that’s all you’ve been dreaming about for a while now, right?” Without meaning to, his voice turns poisonous. “Fucking great, Dream.  _ You  _ get your happy ending, and I…”

Words escape him.

He yells when he’s angry - when he’s sad. He’s always known that his emotions ruled him. But when he feels that pit of helplessness yawning inside of him, he feels the prick of tears and instantly sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek, letting the pain swarm him. He doesn’t cry. Not ever. He sinks into the sting, lets it consume him. He won’t cry. 

Not now. Not here.

He’s walking, out of the hall, and Dream does not follow him. 

Sapnap burns. The night is dry, and suffocating, and kindling. 

Out here, there is nothing to wash away his tears. 

_ Save it for a rainy day.  _

  
  


* * *

_ “No, no, listen.”  _

_ And the world stops to listen to him. It obeys him, the God given life. Death made mortal. It sits to hear his stories. Today, it’s not something he wants to share. This isn’t the kind of tale he wants carried on the wind, on sea spray or falling leaves.  _

_ But, inevitably, it will travel across the nations, and the man won’t be able to do a thing to halt it. It’s inevitable, the way things crack and crumble in his very hands. Nothing lasts forever.  _

_ No one gets a happy ending.  _

_ Although, just this once, he wants it to be infinite. If he was a God, he wouldn’t feel such a heaviness on his heart. It wouldn’t hurt so much. _

_ These choices are difficult.  _

_ “I don’t give a fuck about Spirit. I don’t give a fuck about anything in this damned Kingdom! I have no attachment to anything here, save for what  _ **_you_ ** _ have an attachment to; I care about  _ **_your_ ** _ discs more than you do!” _

_ “What about George?” _

_ He doesn’t hesitate. “George means nothing to me.”  _

  
  



	2. what you need

In the night, George’s safe haven burns; the dark sky curdles with smoke. It’s a secret, for the most part - or rather, it used to be. When Tommy’s involved, things don’t stay secret for long. It’s from the war, his tiny cabin, overgrown with wildflowers and mushrooms and vines. Dream was so concerned for George while the battle raged on - and so he sent him away.

To a place for him and him alone. Even Sapnap hasn’t been inside. He’s seen it from afar, and every time he does, he can’t fight the soft smile that chokes him into silence. It’s so _George._ That soft-spoken declaration of peace and serenity in the middle of war and destruction. 

  
Dream insists that he’s only for chaos - so how could he ever belong to someone like George? George isn’t _chaos_ . He’s those mushrooms and wildflowers incarnate - Dream is… well, Death itself. They don’t _fit -_ yet, somehow, when they hold each other, they’re content to stay that way forever. 

And people notice. Dream is good at secrets, but George can’t hide his blushing, his flustered grins. Their dance wasn’t exactly subtle. 

In his own twisted way, Dream was right. He’s always right, unfortunately for Sapnap, who at this moment is determined to never listen to another word from Dream, no matter how sensible it seems. He’s too stubborn to rationalise or negotiate - that senseless fire clouds his vision and makes him see nothing but red.

Red. Green. Blue. 

Green. Dark, glittering gemstones. Lush, angry jungles - rare clovers hidden in the grass. He feels exclusive, special. Something that Sapnap had once and will now never have back. Good. He doesn’t think he wants Dream back - not after the ball, when he warned him away from Dream only to turn around and _hold him_ like that. 

But George - blue - is the rain. Today, he’s a storm. He doesn’t say a single word, but Sapnap can feel thunder churning in his mind and lightning crackling every time he moves, electricity carving his path. George is quiet, and contemplative, chuckling under his breath slightly, but there’s some kind of unease bubbling under his skin. 

Today, George is coming to the realisation that something has divided his closest friends.

Perhaps it comes hand in hand with the destruction of his gorgeous, hidden home.

_That_ kind of hope doesn’t last long - and when it’s mercilessly burnt and looted by Tommy and Ranboo, it takes all of Sapnap’s self control to not do something about it. George wasn’t too badly hurt - luckily, or the young boys would have Hell to pay, but he left with his skin slightly singed, and a burn on his shoulder. 

Sapnap didn’t even know. It’s not until he passes the hospital bay - on his way to his room - and hears a gritted, muffled curse that he pauses, to find George for the first time since the ball. 

Instantly, it’s _his_ George, not the King draped in red silks and burdened by a heavy crown, but the George he knows so well. He’s sitting on the table, cross-legged, hissing through gritted teeth, trying to press a soaked cotton ball to his bare shoulder. His shirt is folded in his lap. His hair is messy, loose strands strewn recklessly over his slightly singed cheeks. Sapnap stands in the doorway for too long, then averts his gaze slightly.

George is the only one able to make him fully hesitate. 

Finally, he blurts, “What the Hell happened?” 

George jumps, and almost falls off the table. Sapnap stifles his laughter. For a moment, it seems like things could be this easy all the time; careless and free. Like the world is still whole, and Sapnap knows how to love without any strings attached.

He has to remind himself otherwise. 

“ _Tommy_ happened,” George says, awkwardly trying to cover his chest with his shirt. 

“Come on, George, it’s _me_. Oh, I’m sorry - are you still a King? Am I still supposed to call you ‘your highness’ today?” 

It’s been their joke since George became King - that George changes when he puts on the crown. 

“I’m just George today.” 

“Well, _just George,_ looks like you need a hand.” 

“I’m fine.” As Sapnap eyes him, a trickle of water runs down his chest. His eyes fall on the pink burn. “... Okay, maybe I could use some advice.” 

Sapnap tries to focus. He’s looking anywhere but at George - everytime their eyes meet, he’s chained by the thought of the ball and the King, dancing with Dream. _Dream_. He swallows. 

“We do _have_ burn cream, you know.”

“We do?” 

“Yeah? Red tube? Looks like toothpaste?” He triumphantly pulls out the culprit, and with an awkward wince, turns to George. “Oh, the colour thing…”

“Colourblind, Sapnap.” 

“Yes. That.” He grins, crossing to George in a fluid, eager motion. “So Tommy did this? Funny. I didn’t pin him as an arsonist.” 

“Not like you?” 

“That was… strategic… fire-setting.” 

“And deliberate, too.” 

They share a brief laugh, George’s voice high and triumphant. When he’s not wearing red, he can be loud, strung with passion and delight. It’s like a secret identity, Sapnap thinks, that’s dedicated to him and only him. 

Or so he used to think. 

Sapnap leans in to inspect the burn, fingers drifting tentatively over his shoulder. George shivers, wincing slightly. “Your fingers are cold.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

George shuffles forward to dangle his legs over the side of the table, watching Sapnap squeeze cream onto his finger intently. “I can do it myself.” 

“What’s the fun in that?” 

George rolls his eyes, tilting his chin upwards. “You knights and your selfless bullshit.” 

_Like Dream._

Sapnap merely replies, “this might sting a little bit.” He has to fight to keep his voice even.

He leans forward, his legs brushing George’s as he applies the cream in quick, rapid strokes, as if afraid to touch him for too long. If skin meets skin for more than a heartbeat, he might remember too much - _feel_ too much. Already, he feels his cheeks growing hot, burning in the dark shadows of the room. Sapnap glows with tentative delight, softly, a dim flicker of joy. Their eyes meet for a moment, and almost shyly, they both turn their heads away. George’s breath catches under his hand, only slightly, and Sapnap thinks that he might have imagined the whole thing. He can’t keep stumbling into this trap - can’t keep dancing around the truth while George dances with someone else. 

_But it feels so real…_

This, he thinks, is what the ball should have been. Just him and George. No knight. No King. Just _them,_ skin to skin, emotions bared. 

But he can’t dodge Dream forever. They’ve been a trio for so long, it would be impossible to talk to George without mentioning him at least once. It’s still an effort to keep the bitterness from his voice as he continues coolly, “so what did Dream say about Tommy griefing his King’s house?” 

George just snorts. “Mostly _silence._ I tried to tell him it wasn’t that big of a deal, but he just said he’d handle it. You know, in _that_ voice.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar.” 

Dream’s anger is usually sharp and venomous and _quick,_ but there’s those moments - as rare as they are - when his voice becomes low and delicate, smirking slightly, and one can see a sinister gleam in his eye. When he has a hushed, lover’s tone. That’s the killing calm. That’s when he’s lethal - those eerie few heartbeats when he has wicked smiles that gleam like knives and his voice is like honey. That’s when you _run._

“Give me an example,” Sapnap says, despite knowing exactly what George means. 

He obliges, trying to deepen his voice, imitating Dream as best he can. “Don’t you do a thing. I’ll take care of it. I’m a big scary knight. Blah, blah-” 

Sapnap dissolves into laughter. He told himself he wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t even smile. He didn’t even plan on seeing George tonight. He thought it would be too painful to see him again - but this… this isn’t so bad. George tends to have that effect on him, healing whatever wounds he tries to hide in his stubbornness. 

And George doesn’t have to know he’s finding such joy in making fun of Dream. 

“So it’s _not_ a big deal that Tommy… er… burned down your house?”

“I’m not exactly willing to execute him over it. It’s just a house.” 

“ _Your_ house.”

“I don’t think he did it because I’m King, or anything. I don’t have to ruin his life over it.” 

_You don’t. But Dream will._

Sapnap realises that he’s fallen still, his hand still curled against George’s shoulder, and pulls away reluctantly. He feels George watching him cautiously as he crosses to put the cream away - senses the questions rising on his tongue while the silence roams on.

“Is everything alright? With you… and… Dream…? After the ball… I don’t know, I didn’t get to see you.” His voice grows softer, more contemplative. “I missed you.” 

He misses George more than he wants to admit. 

Sapnap rears his head back. “Are you together? Is that a thing now?” 

“Me? And… Dream?” 

“Yeah.” If he turns around, George will see him burning and withering before his very eyes. He’ll see how frightened he is to hear the truth. It terrifies him more than he wants to admit - _especially_ since he’s built his reputation from false confidence. So he keeps his back to George, and lets himself burn.

What he wants and what he needs are certainly different things, but they still blur together from the smoke. There are days when he can’t tell one from the other. He tries to fumble through it all - he wants George. Maybe he even wants Dream, a little bit, too. But he doesn’t want or _need_ the fucking heartache that comes barreling along with it all. 

George is suddenly silent. Helpless. The quiet is enough for Sapnap to peek over his shoulder to watch him - and the fallen King’s head is bowed in defeat, shoulders turned inwards as if holding up the sky. Sapnap knows he’s bearing every single rumour ever whispered about him, about Dream, bending from the pressure of it all, and guilt punches him in the gut. 

“I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “I thought…”

Sapnap just stares.

“I thought I… I…” His eyes harden. “I don’t know what I want. I have no fucking idea, Sapnap.”

He’s walking before he can hesitate, across the room. George looks up at him, hands folded in his lap, seeming so small curled in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest on the table.

“I’m sorry,” George blurts.

“For what?” His voice is so damn small. This feeling - it’s different from the blind anger he was harbouring at the Ball. This kind of rejection is gentle. It’s a tease, the brush of a kiss that’ll never quite connect. It’s inevitable. 

And it hurts like Hell.

“I don’t know. I’m just sorry.”

Sapnap moves to sit on the table beside him, swinging his legs. He forces a light laugh, but his head rings. _He’s so close._ “Unless you give a valid reason, I can’t just accept your apology, _sir_.” 

“Don’t you ‘ _sir’_ me.” 

“I can ‘sir’ whoever I like.” 

He’s not the best with comforting words or sympathy - and as much as he wants so badly to be the person George can turn to, he knows that any attempt at a deep, meaningful conversation would result in a deep longing and bitterness. 

But he’s a fucking good distraction nonetheless. 

“I don’t quite think it’s very _King-like_ for you to sit on a table like this,” he jokes, nudging George’s shoulder. “Imagine what Dream would say!” 

And, instantly, he does _not_ want to imagine what Dream would say. Or do.

“I told you. I’m not a King today.” He looks up, and their eyes meet. “I’m just George.”

A blissful silence settles over them, and Sapnap is washed away. For the moment, he’s only smoking coals. He’s harmless.

“For the record,” he says lightly, “I prefer _just George.”_

“What’s wrong with King George?”

He’s quiet for too long. It’s suspicious, the way he holds himself, as if afraid to lean into George’s touch. But then George has his head nestled against Sapnap’s shoulder, his hair falling across his neck, and it feels _right._ He was built to be a vessel, to hold, to nurture this precious thing in his grasp.

_George likes Dream,_ he has to remind himself. But that thought is nothing but ash as he feels George’s sturdy heartbeat against his arm. 

He opens his mouth with the intention to joke, but his words arrange themselves into the empty air. George waits patiently. He could almost be asleep. He could be too tired to even pay attention, to even listen. Surely, it doesn’t mean that much to him. 

And it’s with that logic that he forces himself to speak.

“I like just George… only him… because I think George likes _me_. In a… different… way…” 

George sits up suddenly, but Sapnap blindly follows his tangent, barely feeling the warmth fade from his side. 

“But I think King George likes… someone else. That isn’t me.” He chokes. “King George doesn’t want me.” Frantically, he turns to George himself, almost pleading with him. Their eyes meet - and neither of them flinch away. “King George wants Dream.” 

He’s dangling, he’s flailing. He’s choked by the strings, dangling from the fingers of fate, and it’s a cruel thing. He’s pinned; he can’t manage another word. Just like that, he’s aflame once again.

George just nods. 

It’s all he needs. 

“Yeah. So. It’s me who should be sorry. I don’t want you to have to, you know, _choose_.” Sapnap is too much of a withering coward to even test it on his lips - the confession, that is. He’s vaguely dancing around the truth and hoping that George reads the desperation in his eyes.

“I like being with you.” 

“I know.” 

“I do want you, too, Sapnap.”

“ _I know.”_ In a way, he’s always known. “Just not in the same way.” 

It’s almost laughable. George, shirtless, still curled atop a table, wide eyed; Sapnap, pacing, running his hands through his long hair and, with shaking fingers, squeezing his dark curls into a bun. So George can see his eyes when he says, “I’m gonna go, then.”

“Oh.” 

His eyes say ‘ _stay’_ but he just dips his head slightly. “If that’s… what you want…” 

God knows that Sapnap doesn’t get what he wants. And neither, apparently, does George - in the last turn of events. He doesn’t know if he wants to dwell on that for too long. 

_I want you, too, Sapnap -_ he replays the words in his mind. 

George stands, but doesn’t make to stop him. He gives himself a few seconds to merely _look -_ to take him in, to watch the way he holds himself, the way his lips purse as if to plead with him. Yet not a single noise shatters the pane of silence. 

Sapnap shuts the door behind him. 

He counts to ten. 

He lets the silence fuel his flames. Toying with the idea that he’ll never quite be good enough - he’ll never be the one for George. Not if only part of him can find the courage to like him. 

Sapnap slumps against the door, quietly, trying to muffle his sound as he hits the floor and draws his knees to his chest. His tanned fingers shake, just slightly, against his legs. Oh, he’s an _idiot_ for believing.

He grasps for some kind of anger. It would be easier if it was anger burning within him - then, at least, he’d be spurred into action. He’d do something with this helplessness, he’d channel it into fury and fire. But he’s filled with a slow kind of longing, a feeling of utter defeat. He was so close - he could have had George, right then and there.

He can’t make this melancholy his weapon. He can’t hone this feeling.

He rests his head against the door.

But perhaps, if he’s daring enough, he could open the door - perhaps then he would find George, his mirror, leaning against the door, wondering how in the Hell he’s going to heal this kind of wound.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Death is born from the wild, wicked woods, the sky, and the stars, and as he sits up for the first time in a new world, he knows that he isn’t alone. Nature is watching him._

_Watching as he stumbles and falls in this new, unfamiliar body. He’s never had a mortal form before - never been forced to bear something so fragile, so breakable. Because this body will break, he knows. He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, such a small, precious thing._

_Why is he here?_

_Why has he been cursed to wander this lush, vibrant land alone? Nature blinks down at him crossly, disappointed. In a rush of clarity, as if he’s been suddenly blessed with the gift of knowledge, he_ **_knows._ **

_He is cursed to lay here for eternity - not to fulfil his duty as the inevitable arrival of both peace and suffering, but to learn how to_ **_love_ ** _. To live among the people he once looked over. He’s only a young god, Death is, and an arrogant one, at that. For all of his immortal life, he’s been judgement and wrath and anger. And now he’s being punished for it._

_He feels… free._

_In a new body, he is frail, and cautious, but his spirit is young and has no limit. He’s only a child. As a God, mortals were his playthings, and he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt damning them. But now… now he’s just like them._

_Still, he doesn’t suffer. Not at first._

_He spends his first days running through the open fields, arms open, doing cartwheels and flips in the long grass and laughing when he falls. He breaks his arm for the first time, and while he wails and cries, he also laughs from his belly until he can’t breathe. He wonders who would come for him if he died - he can no longer escort himself. It’s strange, to tumble and soar and not have a single responsibility. Perhaps this isn’t a punishment. Perhaps this isn’t a curse, after all._

_Perhaps this is an opportunity._

_In the day, when the sun carries him over the rolling hills, he explores without a care in the world - and, being a child, often wastes his hours making potions from leaves, sticks and mud; likely bugs, too. For a heartbeat, he’s sure that his brethren have made a mistake. This world isn't his jail, but his playground._

_But in the night, the monsters come out._

_Death has never had to fight for his life before. It’s how he winds up in a tiny, crumbling village at the edge of the woods, crouching in the doorway of a house that refused to let him inside - whoever is inside has no interest in letting in strays._

_When he threatens them, they laugh. He’s not an intimidating kid, blond and freckled, with impish eyes that suggest mischief and trickery - not vengeance and hatred. When he declares that Death approaches them and pounds on their door, they sneer at his arrogance. He’s an average orphan, to them, and no one is willing to take Death seriously when he is a mortal boy._

_The night is cold._

_Blindly, shivering, spindly arms wrapped around himself, he veers back towards the woods. He can climb a tree, he thinks, and hide until the morning comes. It’s shameful, and cowardly - Death doesn’t run from anything._

_Today, Death has been made a fool of._

_He’s almost out of town when an angry yell erupts from the village. It’s not any kind of fear or terror - rather an outburst of frustration. And it sounds… shrill. Young._

_Death cocks his head, and ventures towards the noise. He doesn’t know what he expects - or what he wants. He certainly doesn’t beg for anything, and he never has, and that’s not his intention, but he wonders… would it be so bad to have someone to talk to?_

_He shakes that thought away as soon as it erupts. It wouldn’t be fitting for him to talk to anyone. As much as he tells himself that he’ll turn away and ignore whatever the disruption is, he’s turning the corner anyway._

_At the end of a path, a boy dangles over the edge of a roof, holding a stick with one hand - some kind of heavy monster is trying desperately to reach him, with a thick, armoured body built of plates of what seem like iron. The kid is young - younger than him - and covered in dirt, with shaggy dark hair. A thin scar twists over his nose._

_He’s hitting the monster on the head with his stick._

_“Fuck” -_ **_whack_ ** _\- “off” -_ **_whack_ ** _\- “you” -_ **_whack_ ** _\- “giant-”_

_It’s almost comical - and as much as Death tries to suppress it, his tiny child’s body is_ **_giggling._ **

_The child freezes, and turns bright, angry eyes in his direction. Instantly, he is pinned into place, struck by the vivid, spiteful fire coiling within the stranger. Even as a mortal, he can feel it._

_“Well?” he says hotly. “Are you gonna give me a hand, or not?”_

_“Oh. I, er…” Death forces a look of disinterest. “Oi! Over here!”_

_The monster doesn’t even glance in his direction._

_“You have to_ **_hit_ ** _it, dumbass. Haven’t you ever met a golem before?”_

_“I don’t bother with villages often,” he sneers._

_“Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”_

_By now, he’s gathered that despite his rough appearance, the kid is clever; he knows what he’s doing, despite his youth. Perhaps that’s why he inclines his head in grudging respect, biting down on a laugh._

_He’s got guts._

_He’s also vaguely entertaining._

_And so Death runs to find the biggest branch he can find on the ground and swings it, as hard as he can, into the face of the golem. In one fluid motion, it wraps a gnarled hand around his neck and lifts him into the air._

_He kicks out wildly, writhing, but it doesn’t let go. For the first time, complete and utter panic chokes him. Tonight, Death is going to die. No one will greet him into reincarnation._

_It must be such a lonely thing._

_He’s never considered that before._

_The stranger leaps from the roof and crashes into its back - it has to be strong, to only stumble from the pure impact of the kid. But it’s enough. Death scrambles from the ground. He has half a mind to run - to save himself. It would be a smart move. A selfish one, sure, but smart._

_But he finds himself watching the way the iron plates of the golem shift when it moves, revealing soft, dark flesh underneath._

_He looks at the way the small, feisty stranger wrestles with the beast with a feral, toothy grin._

_And he drives the sharp blade of the stick into the cracks in the golem’s armour. He watches it sink to the ground - the dark-haired kid leaps and pokes the golem’s head with his own stick, laughing with delight. “Nice!”_

_He feels…_

**_Powerful._ **

_Even as a mortal, he could learn how to defend himself. Even in this child’s body, he’s not entirely helplessly. He’s never had to work for anything a day in his life - but he_ **_could_ ** _. He has to, if he wants to survive like this._

_The stranger sticks out a dirty hand for him to shake. “Thanks for the help, kid. But I’m sure I woulda killed it myself… eventually.”_

_Who’s he calling a_ **_kid?_ ** _He used to be older than the world itself. This stranger has some guts, he’ll give him that._

_“Who are you?” he demands._

_“I’m N… N…” The kid hesitates. “Sapnap.”_

_“Sapnap? That’s an… odd name.”_

_“So?” Sapnap says hotly, puffing out his chest. “Got a problem with it?”_

_“Uh, no.”_

_“... So?” Sapnap is clearly waiting for something. Does he want… payment?_

_“Uh…?”_

_“Your name, dumbass, what’s your name?” He’s got a filthy mouth for his size, Death notes darkly. He opens his mouth to reply coolly, to put him in his place, to send him running -_ __  
  
He hesitates. 

_For all of his immortal life, he’s been a nightmare given flesh, a dark phantom, a cruel, inevitable, unforgiving force of nature. He’s been infinite - but now he is made anew, fresh. Free._

_This is his chance. He can kill a golem - surely he can do_ **_something_ ** _with these young hands. He can work, build, fight. He can change the world, if he so wants to._

_And, unbeknownst to him, he can love. Although he certainly doesn’t plan to meet a scrawny brown-haired kid who introduces himself as George, some things are unpredictable._

_He just doesn’t know it yet._

_And so he inclines his head to Sapnap, and shakes his hand. “Dream. My name is Dream.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3333 Tomorrow I'll be posting the final part, so I hope you like it! Have a lovely day or night <3


	3. what we deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains mention of abuse.
> 
> "Though you’re in everyone I meet and  
> we’ll say fuck the banks but we’ll still use them every day"   
> \- Banks, Lincoln

  
  


Thinking back on it, the more Sapnap reflects on their first meeting, the more he’s sure that Dream isn’t quite human the way he and George are. He’s better at hiding it, now, as an adult, but Sapnap still catches himself staring, wondering where,  _ exactly,  _ he came from. In Dream’s mind, his life truly began once he met Sapnap and George - there was nothing but emptiness before that. He supposes he should feel honoured to be that important to him; he  _ does,  _ in a way. Meeting Dream changed his life, too. He had gone from a dirty, awkward runaway to a dirty, awkward runaway with a friend. 

He kind of misses those long nights under the stars. George would declare that he was making wishes on those exact stars with such vigour that Sapnap would never question him, and Dream would instantly retort that the sky wouldn’t exactly  _ respond.  _

“Sure it would!” he’d say. “You’re just not looking hard enough!” 

“Trust me, I  _ am.  _ Those bastards won’t look at tiny things like us. _ ”  _

That was when Sapnap began to suspect that Dream wasn’t like them. He didn’t mind, though. If he knew the stars personally, that didn’t change things. 

Sapnap has better reasons to distrust him now. 

It’s still so,  _ so  _ awkward between them all. Although he preens at the thought of even  _ some  _ part of George wanting him close, it’s still a bittersweet revelation. Because another part of him wants Dream, too, and Sapnap can’t fight the jealousy that grips him in its fists, beating him senseless. He knows it’s selfish, irrational. 

But he doesn’t want to share. 

When he first met Dream all those years ago - a year before either of them even knew George existed - he wasn’t like this. He was hot-headed and bold, but he wasn’t afraid to share the glory with Dream. He was never possessive over nor Dream or George when they came into his life; they loved each other equally. He wouldn’t admit it, but it felt good to have a companion. A friend, even - even if the kid was strange and often spoke as if he was older than the world itself, Sapnap never asked or confirmed his suspicions. Now, Dream seems so far away. 

He was right about those stars - nothing in that sky really, truly cares about their frail, mortal lives. Maybe Dream was one of them, once. Sapnap wouldn’t be surprised. 

He wonders if George has picked up on Dream’s strange behaviour - if he has, he doesn’t mention it, or doesn’t deem it as important. Maybe that supernatural element is attractive to him - maybe that dangerous quality is a thrill. So  _ that’s  _ what Sapnap’s missing. A dash of risk taking. 

He can be  _ risky,  _ right? Isn’t that his brand? Playing with fire? 

He must not be the kind of person that George is willing to toy with. 

In the last three weeks - almost a month to sit and sulk in his room, trying frantically to swallow any urges to visit George or Dream - he’s been lonely. He’s left alone; no one comes to check on him, save for Dream to try to explain things, so he can only assume that he’d be better off unbothered, or they’re frightened to approach him. Sapnap has a nasty habit of seeming foul and unapproachable, even when he’s calm, so he’s likely earned himself a reputation that’s telling any others to stay away. 

He’s afraid to let go of his childhood, even as it’s wrenched out of his grasp. Those years with Dream and George were some of the best of his life. He can’t just forget that so easily, even if  _ they  _ can. 

It’s been three weeks since he left George alone in the hospital bay. 

He’s been expecting some kind of surprise for days, now - it’s been too calm. The storm, inevitably, will break. Yet he’s still startled when he hears the muffled knocking on the door, and with an ugly crack, he tumbles off his mattress onto the floor, scrambling to the door. He shouldn’t be so eager.

He’s just lonely. 

“George?” 

Ugly, angry silence. “No.” 

“Oh - Dream-” 

Not exactly who Sapnap was waiting for, but he has to remind himself to be civil. He unlocks the door and Dream slips inside, not waiting for permission, merely throwing himself onto Sapnap’s bed with a groan.

“Hello, yes, help yourself to my room and belongings. Nice to see you too, Dream.” 

“Would you rather I come back on my hands and knees to beg for your forgiveness?” 

“So you admit you  _ need  _ forgiveness?” He doesn’t let himself smile. Not yet, anyway. It’s too easy to fall back into their usual banter. “You admit you did something wrong?” 

“I’m not  _ that  _ much of a prick, Sap.” His voice softens, slightly. “You’re the one who’s been shut up in his room for the last few weeks. I’m happy to talk.” 

“Then talk.” 

“Yeah, we - we need to. That’s why I came. I’m putting my foot down.” Dream sits up, and his eyes are narrowed, and dread nests within Sapnap. This is bad. It has to be, for Dream to come and confront him. 

“I told him.” 

_ ‘Him’  _ could only be George, in this case, since he’s the one force that both Sapnap and Dream revolve around unconditionally. That much is undeniable. But there’s so much to tell, it’s impossible to know what, exactly, Dream  _ told.  _

He’s silent, lips pursed, eyes deliberately scanning the room, looking anywhere but at Sapnap. Oh, it  _ has  _ to be bad. Confident, arrogant Dream, reduced to an awkward, fumbling mess on his bed, unable to find the words to continue.

Sapnap tells himself that he still hates Dream for what he did. He tries to convince himself he has no sympathy for the man who holds George’s heart in his hands. 

But Dream’s lips quiver slightly. His best friend, reduced to silence. 

Sapnap’s determination cracks, just a little.

“An explanation would be nice, Dream,” he begs. “I can’t read minds.” 

“I told him that - I -” 

“You confessed?” His throat goes dry. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you, or whatever…” 

“No. I mean, yes, I did, but… about you... too.” 

So Dream had found the words that Sapnap could not. It’s probably for the best that Dream knows how to communicate those churning feelings that he can’t seem to talk about, but still- 

Sapnap crawls onto the bed, forcing Dream to match his gaze. “Just to clarify: you… told George… that you like him. And then told him… that  _ I  _ like him.” 

“Er. Yes.” 

“Fuck, I’m so dead. I’m so unbelievably dead. Thank you,  _ so much,  _ Dream, for telling George about how much I like him. How  _ helpful  _ of you.” 

“I wasn’t doing it to  _ help.  _ I mean, I was, but I’m just - I’m sick of this bullshit. For the record, I’m sorry about some of the things I said at the ball from… from a jealous perspective. But that doesn’t change what I said. The weird looks and the sideways glances. Things are so much easier when everyone knows what’s going on.”

“And when he chooses you? What then?” 

“Then that’ll be his choice, and we have to respect that.” 

“Would you respect it if he chose  _ me?  _ Unlikely as it is-” 

“It’s the least we can do for getting him mixed up in all of this. I just told him how we feel-” 

Sapnap shoves a finger into Dream’s chest, but the boy doesn’t move. “You don’t know a damn thing about what I feel! How could you-” 

“ _ You  _ don’t even know how you feel! Is this love, Sapnap? Is it?” Dream leans forward so that they’re nose to nose, eyes flared with bitterness. “Is it love? When the Gods hear  _ you  _ talking of  _ love  _ and  _ hope  _ and  _ trust,  _ they sneer at you, Sapnap. They think we’re naive. The both of us.” 

He’s still the same kid. Still that pale, freckled boy, that strange, skinny child talking as if he’s already seen the hardships the world has to offer. Like he’s already met Death, as already howled on his doorstep, and fears nothing but himself. This man talks with the wisdom of Gods. 

Sapnap can’t say a word. 

“You don’t know what you want. Neither do I. I could kiss you right now, and you’d kiss back, and neither of us would fucking want that, but we’d do it anyway. That’s the way we are. So I told George  _ exactly  _ what he needs to hear, and now everything will be okay.” 

“You wouldn’t do anything of the sort.” 

“Try me.” 

His eyes don’t flinch away - he’s so close. 

Yet so far. 

Sapnap shoves him onto the other side of the bed, cursing him with every breath, and Dream laughs from his chest, sprawled on the mattress. It’s not fucking funny - it’s the opposite of funny. Sapnap has half a mind to start yelling and telling Dream  _ exactly  _ what he thinks of boys like him, but then he’s chuckling and he just can’t stop. 

_ Fuck Dream, _ he thinks feebly, through his anger and laughter.  _ Fuck him. _

_ “See?”  _ the blond wheezes. “What did I tell you? We’re so fucking stupid.”

Sapnap is silent for a long time. Too long. Enough for Dream to shuffle back to sit beside him, leaning against his propped up pillows. 

“You’re a cruel person, you know that?”

“The very worst.” He smiles grimly. 

“... Dream?” 

“Hm?” 

“What  _ are  _ you?” 

“I…” He visibly hesitates. “I am human.” 

“Then what  _ were  _ you?” By now he’s certain that something else is lurking under his friend’s skin - and he’s not exactly frightened by it. Just desperate for answers, for the truth. Thanks to Dream, everything is falling apart, anyway. Why not explore further?

“I was there when this world began,” Dream rasps. “I was one of the first.” 

“The first…?” 

“First Gods.” He says it so casually that Sapnap actually barks out a horrified laugh. 

“You’re kidding. You’re a  _ God,  _ Dream?” 

“Not anymore, I’m not. I have just as much power as you do, which is fuck-all.” 

“And you… you…” 

“You know, it’s not that big of a deal.” 

“It really is.” Dream has the audacity to look offended at this.

“Look, Sapnap, that’s the one thing George doesn’t know - and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” 

“Well, I would have preferred you  _ didn’t  _ tell George about my feelings, yet here we are. Anyway, I kind of guessed you weren’t entirely human, but… shit, a  _ God,  _ of all things?” 

“Is that so hard to believe?” 

Sapnap pauses to study him - his handsome face, his eyes gleaming of both a feline, sinister intent and a youthful, innocent mischief. He inclines his chin and leans back smugly, as if posing for Sapnap’s gaze. “Yeah, I believe it.”

It comes out harsher than he means it to. The words bite. 

Sapnap puts his head in his hands, sifting through his messy thoughts. Dream, the God. Dream, the truth-teller. Dream, the hero.

And who is he? What does Sapnap get to be in this story? A loyal knight - a hot-headed, scruffy runaway making a name for himself in a new nation. A friend. 

Not a lover, no. Never a lover. 

So it’s all out in the open, their fucked love triangle  _ thing  _ that Sapnap has no intention of unravelling. He wants things to be simple, and easy, communicated in only so many words. This narrative is woven from unfamiliar threads that he struggles to unravel. Him liking George. George somehow liking both of them. Dream only having eyes for the King he is sworn to protect - and Sapnap acknowledging Dream as both his rival and his friend. 

There’s something so terrifying about the truth. Where Sapnap expects to feel some kind of liberation, a freedom from everything that’s been hounding him for weeks, he’s just  _ frustrated.  _ There’s no telling what Dream did to fix this behind closed doors.

“I think you need to go now.” 

Dream straightens. “But I fixed it. I fixed everything.” He’s almost pleading, as if he missed Sapnap during those weeks of cool, bitter silence. “Everything’s okay now.”

“Is it?” 

“I mean…” His gaze clouds slightly. “I can handle anything bad that comes of this.” 

“You have to stop doing that. You have to stop  _ handling  _ all of our problems. You have to stop  _ handling  _ anything that happens to us instead of thinking of yourself. You didn’t have to  _ handle  _ my feelings on my behalf, Dream.”

“Ah.” Dream slips off the bed. “But if I don’t…”

“The world will keep turning. I don’t want you to keep fixing things.” 

Dream’s lips twitch, approaching a smile, testing his limits, but Sapnap merely glares. He’s had enough of sitting around, waiting for Dream to do everything for him. He’s a knight. And he’s his own person - he doesn’t need a  _ God  _ to tell him about love. The unspoken words are there, burning in his mind.  _ I don’t need you anymore, Dream.  _

Once upon a time, he did. There was a year when Dream was all he had, could cling to, as a runaway, before they met George. And oh, how  _ that  _ turned out! 

“Go,” he says, and means it. 

“Sap, do you remember what I said at the Ball? About people using us… to get to George?” 

Sapnap does. He won’t forget it in a hurry. “What about it?” 

“Well, I meant it.  _ That’s  _ why I have to do something.”

“Wh-” 

“And for the record, I’m truly sorry for what’s going to happen.” 

Something about the sincerity in his eyes sends shivers down Sapnap’s spine and he shudders, slightly, recoiling from the intensity he finds there. It feels like something ominous and inevitable.

It feels like a prophecy.

  
  


He watches Dream leave, and half of him wants to call him back. Wants to be a child once again. Yearns for even a shred of physical comfort, to curl against Dream’s chest and feel his heartbeat until they’re both asleep. That’s what he did in his youth - fell asleep to the pounding beat of a deity and enjoyed his warmth. 

The door clicks behind him, and Sapnap is left alone, for better or for worse. 

* * *

A week later, he hears the words on the wind, in every passing breeze and whispered rumour. 

_ “George means nothing to me.”  _

. . . 

_ “I don’t give a fuck about anything in this damned Kingdom!” _

  
  


Dream’s words still haunt him, and when he dares to venture out of his room, they chase him back to where it’s safe. No one can hurt him if he’s left alone. But it’s not just him who has the right to be injured by the idea that he isn’t cared about by that friend - 

It’s George. 

He’s sworn to protect his King, and so is Dream.  _ Dream _ , that prick, preaching about doing what’s right, preaching of Good and Evil as if he’d know, publicly denouncing the man he’s sworn to serve and protect. After a week, Sapnap was almost willing to give up.

Sapnap is so unbelievably tired. If Dream is willing to work to have George, well, he can have his happy ending. He’ll watch. He’ll take defeat with his chin held high, like a blade through the heart. 

But then those fateful words from Dream’s tongue:

_ “George means nothing to me.”  _

It has to be some elaborate plan. It’s Dream - of  _ course  _ he’d have some secret plot, some ulterior motive. Some plan. Trying to fix things, as per usual, trying to  _ handle it.  _

  
Has George heard the song on the wind? Does he know that Dream - one of the people he’s closest to - has called him worthless? And if he doesn’t, is Sapnap even brave enough to tell him? 

Hell, he could barely tell George he liked him in the first place. Dream had stolen  _ that  _ moment from him. Whatever confession he makes now will be useless, and awkward, and so he hasn’t sought out George. He hasn’t been called upon to defend him, so he assumes that the nation is at peace. 

At least, for now. 

Everything is temporary. Of this much, he’s certain, even if he’s a coward in every regard. Things are already so fragile - a single breath in the wrong direction, a slight whisper, and everything falls. 

It’s only that logic that drives him out into the streets. He’s seen George in passing, and every time his heart flutters. Every time, George averts his gaze, his face turned slightly away. Afraid to look at him. His only consolation is that Dream never seems to be around him, either, but it doesn’t count for much when he doesn’t even look him in the eye. 

Today, he won’t be a coward. He’ll tell George  _ exactly  _ what Dream has been saying.

For so many days, George has been hiding in the dishevelled excuse of a nation, El Rapids. Not  _ in,  _ physically, because there’s a loose definition of what, exactly, the new land even is supposed to be or represent, but  _ emotionally -  _ spending time with Quackity. Even Karl, not even affiliated with building a ‘new nation’, trails them, and George seems to like their company. 

So he goes hunting. He doesn’t exactly know where to find them - he wanders blindly through the streets, the new houses rebuilt from the war, covering the scars of the rubble underneath it. It hurts to see it, as if pretending that blood wasn’t spilled on the dirt here. 

It wasn’t even from Sapnap’s side. He doesn’t know why he cares so much. He fought with Dream - but even now he wonders if that was ever a good idea. They’ve been fighting alongside each other since they were children. They know each other  _ too  _ well, enough for Sapnap to feel effortlessly guilty about every bad thought. 

_ “I don’t give a fuck about anything in this damned Kingdom!” _

He grits his teeth. Things like that include Sapnap. 

A single plucked note floats into the open air. A guitar string, then another, clunking into a clumsy chord pattern, nimble fingers testing out a melody. It doesn’t make sense. It’s a messy tune, and it’s clear the player isn’t exactly taking it seriously.

But there’s only one person who Sapnap can recall who plays the guitar, and he’s dead. 

He follows the noise, his heart thudding. 

Dead people don’t come back. Dead people don’t come back to seek revenge against those who fought against them, unless… 

A ghost… 

Sapnap trails the sound down a rickety ladder, down below the wooden bridge twining over the destruction, shielding the rubble from the sun. He expects the ladder to lead to that ancient, crumbling mess, lead to nothing but emptiness and memories - but hidden under the bridge is a  _ house.  _

The slanted roof connects at an angle to the underside of the bridge - and curled in that tiny little space is - 

“Quackity.” 

He sags in silent relief - Quackity fumbles with his guitar, his foot sending a tile shattering on the ground. 

“Oh, fuck, Sapnap, you scared the shit out of me! Look what you did.”

“Oh, sorry-” 

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” He goes back to strumming a few awkward, dissonant chords that make Sapnap cringe slightly. His eyebrows crinkle in suspicion, although he doesn’t take his eyes off his guitar. “Did you come looking for George?”

“How do you-”

“We  _ talk,  _ me and him.” 

“Oh.” No doubt about Sapnap. He manages an awkward chuckle “Oh, so… he’s not here?” 

He tries not to shrink away from Quackity. The guy has never struck Sapnap as intimidating - most of the time, he’s just effortlessly  _ fun -  _ but today there’s something slightly ominous about the way he’s hidden under the bridge, playing a mournful tune, luring him away from the path. He hugs himself into his baggy blue jacket; a few strands of dark hair peek out from his beanie. 

“He’ll be back, don’t you worry.”

“He’s coming here?” 

“Yup.”

For a moment, he balances on his toes, then blurts, “Can I sit with you?” 

“What are you asking permission for? Get up here, man, you gotta hear this.” 

His curiosity is too much for him as he crawls up onto the roof and sits beside Quackity, having to bend slightly to avoid his head hitting the underside of the bridge. “I didn’t know you played.” 

“I don’t, not really. Not at all, actually. But this, good sir, is a  _ very  _ good reason to learn.”

“Oh. Oh, so… is this…?” 

“It’s a song. For George.”

He tries not to seem too interested by that, but his eyes betray him. Quackity laughs at him, and it feels…  _ genuine.  _ He lets himself smile. 

For the first time, he allows himself to consider the house itself - it’s more of a cottage, reminiscent of the one Tommy destroyed. It’s perched above the ashy rubble and dust from the last war, and water trickles from the cliffside into a little pool close to the house. He can see his reflection, distorted as it is. And all around, tenderly planted in tiny pots, flowers grip the house in a gentle hold. There’s no denying who created this secret place. 

“This is George’s place?” 

“Er, he made it, but I drop by sometimes, too. It’s quiet. Plus, sometimes I can sing really loudly and annoy the living shit out of Tommy.” 

“That’s always a bonus.” 

They share brief laughter, and Sapnap finds himself considering El Rapids - it’s been there, a silent force, for a while, now, and for the first time he wonders if he should take it seriously. It’s not even recognised as a nation - not yet, anyway - and George already seems deeply intertwined with it. It has to be politically important, if George is escaping from his responsibilities as King to come here so often. 

Or perhaps it’s just  _ fun.  _

Sapnap fumbles with the word for a while. Quackity’s testing different strumming patterns awkwardly, and he swears loudly when he gets one wrong, but his presence is oddly…  _ soothing.  _ Sapnap could almost fall asleep, curled on the cool tiles of the roof. Quackity doesn’t mind close contact, and his head droops against his arm. He doesn’t even question Sapnap’s presence, as if he’s welcome anytime. 

Yes, he’s definitely lulled into a sense of security. 

Until George drops from the ladder. 

And freezes to find Sapnap sitting next to Quackity drowsily, bobbing his head along to a clumsy chord pattern. 

“Finally!” Quackity crows. “Are you ready for my song, Georgie?” 

“What is Sapnap doing here!?” 

Quackity and George have some kind of hasty, panicked mental conversation, and Sapnap just stares blankly. In a rush, he remembers why he came, but his courage is quenched by George’s soft gaze. He doesn’t seem  _ mad,  _ just tentative and confused. 

It’s still his George. 

“Hello,” he whispers. “Are you just George, today?” 

“Yes.” Then, as if afraid that isn’t enough, he adds, “I usually am, in El Rapids.” 

“Mexican L’Manburg,” Quackity cuts in. “It’s officially Mexican L’Manburg.” 

“Is that because you built it… or…?” 

Quackity bursts into giggles. “I guess you’d find that out if you joined it, wouldn’t you, Sapnap?” 

“It’s El Rapids in my heart, actually. That’s  _ official,”  _ George says, and he  _ grins.  _ His smile glows. God, Sapnap missed that. He’s missed a lot of things about George, actually, things he didn’t even realise he did until he’s watching them before his very eyes. The way his eyes are squished when he smiles, as if he can’t contain his grin. The way his hair falls loose over his brows, covering just a sliver of his iris - he has ash caught in his hair, too, and damn, if Sapnap isn’t staring like an idiot. All in a rush, he remembers that George  _ knows,  _ and he flushes. 

“I - uh - I came to visit. I… was curious.”

“Welcome to El Rapids -” 

“- Mexican L’Manburg -” 

“- it is  _ not  _ Mexican L’Manburg.” His smile is apologetic. “Are you… joining?” 

“Joining  _ El Rapids?”  _

“I thought that’s why you-” 

“And I don’t object,” Quackity cuts in. “Then George will stop moaning about how much he wants you in this nation and he  _ misses  _ you and -” 

“ _ Okay,  _ that’s  _ enough,  _ Quackity,  _ thank you.”  _ George is shrinking into his shirt - and today, he doesn’t wear a crown. He doesn’t wear red silks or armour, but just a blue shirt and pants. He’s home. 

Sapnap blinks in quiet surprise. “You miss me?” 

“No.” He swallows nervously. The lie is obvious.

“You’re coming here instead of… of being King?” 

“I mean, yeah. I can be both. There’s no harm in you being here, right?” 

“I guess not, it’s just…” 

“I think it would be… good… for us if you joined.”

In a flash, he has a moment of startling clarity. George is inviting him into something sacred, offering him a place alongside him -  _ away  _ from their responsibilities. He’s compromising with Sapnap, letting him have that special escape route. This is the place where he is George, and only George. 

Dream has already declared that they mean nothing to him. 

So he says, with as much strength as he can muster, “You’re all I have left.” 

Even Quackity looks up at that. 

“George, I came to tell you… that Dream said… Dream said he doesn’t care about anything in the kingdom anymore. Not me, not… not you… he… uh…” 

“Spit it out, Sap,” George says, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes are wide and he moves forward to stand before the roof, looking up at him helplessly. Quackity’s fingers pause on his guitar. 

“He said you mean nothing to him. Publicly.” 

“To…?” 

“To Tommy. He told Tommy that he doesn’t care about us. Never did. That’s… what gives him… power.” 

There’s an awful silence that just swells, and swells. 

There are some bonds that can’t be shattered. And it’s difficult to erase the history that’s already been branded upon them, their childhood spent together. That’s one thing that’ll never quite fade. But it can still  _ hurt.  _ And fuck, it hurts, to see George shocked into silence.

Quietly, Sapnap leans down to offer George a hand, and pulls him up to the roof. After a heartbeat of hesitation, George crawls to lean against him, body curling easily against his.

No tears. But his breathing is deep, and untethered, as if trying to calm himself. Sapnap’s chin rests atop George’s hair, and one hand curls around his back to grip his back, tucking him closer. Irrationally, he  _ could  _ be grateful for the opportunity to hold George. But not like this. Not when he’s hurt. 

Today, he just does what needs to be done. He’s no knight - but he’s still George’s humble servant. Today, he just comforts him. George is silent for a long time, but Sapnap can almost feel his thoughts churning, chewing it over, trying to find the words to communicate the sense of betrayal he feels. 

Sapnap knows. He’s already felt it. 

“He said that?” George mumbles. 

“Mhm.”

Quackity’s nodding along into the contemplative silence that skitters out from that. George’s head buries deeper into his shirt, thinking about it. 

Finally, Sapnap ventures, “That’s why I think I need Me- El Rapids.” 

“Nice save,” Quackity mutters.

“You two are all I have left.” 

Quackity lifts his head slightly, startled by that. They’ve talked many times before, and every conversation in the past has been friendly, if not slightly argumentative - but that’s to be expected in Sapnap’s favoured banter. But he means it. He doesn’t think Quackity would be  _ that  _ difficult to live with. Even easier to be friends with. 

“That’s what Mexican L’Manburg is for, man,” Quackity says, strumming a chord. “We’re brothers now. Like a… a band of brothers!” He lifts his guitar. 

“I should hope not!” To his utter surprise, it’s George who cuts in, voice quiet and cracking slightly. “I’m not letting Sapnap be my brother!”

“Fine, fine!  _ We  _ can be brothers and the guy you have a ‘ _ complicated relationship’  _ with can tag along too.” 

Sapnap flushes slightly, wondering exactly what George has confided in Quackity. They’re close friends, he realises - closer than he originally thought. They’ve clearly gossiped about him before.

George realises this, too, and blushes. 

Quackity continues hastily, tentatively. “It… It can be us against the world, if Dream doesn’t want to appreciate you two anymore.” 

He wouldn’t usually picture the two of them getting along, but when he looks at them both, he realises that it  _ fits,  _ the way they feed off each other in every conversation, filling each other’s silences. It works. Sapnap holds George a little tighter - not possessive, but accepting.

Could he fit in here, too? It seems like George’s place, not his, but he suddenly wouldn’t belong anywhere else. He doesn’t mind it here. 

“Just us?” he ventures. “Am I…?”

“You’re welcome here,” George says, muffled. 

“And maybe Karl, if he wants to join,” Quackity adds. 

“It’s  _ us,”  _ Sapnap breathes. “We can take them all on.”

“Who’s  _ they?”  _

“Whoever tries to split us up, I guess, or whoever deserves it.” 

George doesn’t say a word, but his thoughts are clear.  _ Even Dream? _

_ Let’s just pray we don’t run into Dream for the rest of the day, or he’ll have Hell to pay,  _ Sapnap thinks dryly,  _ from both me and Quackity. Just for hurting George. _

Quackity breaks the silence. “I finished my song for you, Georgie.” 

“Oh, I  _ can’t wait.” _

“I made this as a little token of appreciation for  _ darling  _ George, Sapnap,” Quackity says, winking in Sapnap’s direction. “Don’t get jealous, now.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Sapnap doesn’t know what to expect - but Quackity opening his mouth and bellowing one of the most vulgar, crude tunes he’s ever heard in his life certainly isn’t it. As he goes, swearing and grinning, he strums the guitar, describing George in such awful scenes that Sapnap has half a mind to cover his ears. There are moments when it sounds genuinely  _ good -  _ and then Quackity dissolves into giggles, screws up a chord, and swears even more for good measure. Then they’re all laughing from the very pit of their chests, deep and hearty and _ genuine  _ and  _ this,  _ Sapnap thinks, is what he lives for. Even George is wheezing breathlessly into his shirt, clinging to him. Neither of them mention the confession. They don’t have to. 

_ Good,  _ Sapnap thinks. He doesn’t want to talk about what he felt before. It’s still there, lingering, reminding him through a haze of laughter that it’s George who holds on to him so tightly, and it’s George who he grips close to his chest. But what’s important is how he feels, _ right now _ , in this tiny, fleeting moment, the high, exhilarating joy that bursts from his lungs and soars. 

Today, he’s not afraid to burn, if only for a second, if he has George curled and breathless alongside him.

* * *

_ A lone figure sits on the bridge and places a hand over his withered heart. He’s not Death - not anymore - but today he longs for some kind of power. Anything that would make him feel like he’s in control, like the world is in his palm.  _

_ No. Today, he’s helpless, and choked by his own foolishness.  _

_ Yes, Death was cursed to fall. But he was also cursed to  _ **_feel._ ** _ That gorgeous, triumphant love is nothing compared to the blow that comes afterwards.  _

_ The blind, dizzying confusion. _

_ And the plunge.  _

_ Dream doesn’t know what to do.  _

_ He’s never done this before.  _

_ With wings spread, he fumbled for the sun - and now, the chains of his curse drag him into the sea. Death incarnate, and now Icarus, too.  _

_ He wants to love, so badly. He wants to feel it. He  _ **_does._ **

_ He loves.  _

_ But he can’t let George die for his own sins. He feels hot tears pricking the edge of his vision, scalding him. He chokes; he doesn’t want George to suffer.  _

_ Oh, the Gods are cruel.  _

_ He hears that vulgar tune floating from below the bridge, a high, warbling voice and the jagged, eager strokes of the guitar. And with triumphant laughter, a new pair of voices join in with a dishevelled harmony. _

_ Their voices are so mortal. They trip, and stumble. They raise them anyway, in pure unfiltered delight - despite what Dream has done to hurt them.  _

_ And will do.  _

_ With their song, they declare war on his heart.  _

  
  


* * *

_. . .  _

_ The King, and the lover.  _

_ “I can be both,” George says. _

_ And like a fool, Sapnap believes it.  _

* * *

__

They don’t see Dream until days later. George’s court demands his attention through the following week, and Sapnap finally does his job and supervises it all, temporarily dismissing a startled Punz to be closer to George. 

It feels like the world is righting itself - nature is mending. 

After that one hug, that one brief moment where they held each other, they don’t touch, but Sapnap doesn’t think they have to. Maybe George feels awkward about it - maybe it’s something they just don’t mention or ask about, but Sapnap at least still treasures it, still nurses that kernel of joy. It’s a victory to him.

In the back of his mind, he has other concerns, strong enough to keep his mind away from George and having him close once again.

He hasn’t seen Dream anywhere, not even in passing. He must be sulking, he thinks. Either that, or he’s planning something, but Sapnap isn’t willing to accept that. That would mean that their ordeal isn’t over - that Dream still has another weapon up his sleeve, another trick. 

Dream, the  _ God  _ \- and one of the First, at that. He can’t comprehend it. He’s always suspected he wasn’t quite human the way Sapnap and George were, but to be a deity. The things he must have seen - the things he must have  _ done.  _ Sapnap was raised on tales of Gods and Goddesses that make naughty children suffer and destroy villages for fun. Dream isn’t that kind of power - is he? He’s in this mortal body, has this mortal heart, large enough to love George, somehow. That has to mean something. 

The sky darkens, and with that Sapnap is certain that the Gods disapprove, although it’s impossible to tell who’s provoked their wrath - Dream, who once lived among them? Or something deeper… 

The clouds are writhing and grey, and a deep blackness holds the nations in its fist as they walk, George and Sapnap and Quackity, as a trio, down the path. They’re not going under the bridge, not today, but it’s the first time in days that George has abandoned his crown to spend time with them. It’s a frail balance between King and common man. Quackity skips over the wooden planks, a poster slightly scrunched in his fists.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he ventures. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging my bad decisions, Sappy-nap? I thought you were meant to be this big  _ risk-taker. _ ” 

“So you admit it’s a bad decision?” 

“Oh, it’s a shitty one, absolutely.” 

“I just want to see Tommy’s face when he walks outside in the morning and sees this,” George says, already on the cusp of laughter. 

They slip up to his doorway, and Quackity has to be lifted by George to reach the arch curling over their heads. Sapnap leans against the wall, watching them spread a paper. It’s an old, crinkled picture of Tommy - clearly far younger than he is now. But the canvas isn’t quite complete yet. Quackity uncaps a marker and hands it to George, bowing deeply with a sarcastic smile.  _ “Your highness.” _

It starts innocently enough. It’s  _ George,  _ so of course he draws a top hat and moustache and just a hint of something phallic in the corner, although subtly, and Quackity scoffs. It’s the perfect time for Bad himself, heavily cloaked so that only his horns and tufts of brown hair peek out from his hood, to turn the corner to find them giggling and swearing over George’s artist ability. 

“What the-” 

“No, no, you have to hit him where it hurts!” Quackity cuts in hastily, snatching the marker.

And in giant, red letters, he writes: 

_ Wanted: A CHILD.  _

_ For crimes of being a bitch.  _

Sapnap lets out a burst of incredulous laughter. Oh, Tommy might kill them for this. 

“Poor Tommy,” Bad says meekly, but he doesn’t exactly protest. 

“Come on, man, your turn.” Quackity beckons Sapnap close, and he holds the marker in his grasp. His fingers squeeze as he studies the poster. Today, he’s alive - so why not take risks? Why not be daring? He could be dead at Tommy  _ or  _ Dream’s hands by nightfall. He feels George watching him, flushed slightly, brown eyes gleaming in curiosity. 

He lifts the pen.

“What the Hell are you  _ doing?”  _

It’s not Tommy’s voice, and Sapnap thanks the Gods for small mercies as he spins on his heel to find- 

No, it’s worse. 

Dream stands on the path with his arms crossed, bouncing on his toes. He somehow seems both threatening and innocent at once, tentatively walking to peer behind them. He even laughs lightly, as if nothing is wrong. 

George is frozen. It’s the first time in weeks they’ve been together, all three of them, with only the truth laid out in the open between them. 

“Uh. We are… antagonising Tommy.”

Quackity grins, but it feels forced. “Annoying the living shit out of him, per say.” 

“Language.” Bad leans against the wall of Tommy’s house, watching them warily. Bad is someone that Sapnap’s never quite understood, a mysterious figure - he’s spent a lot of time with Dream, so Sapnap’s supervised plenty of their more formal conversations, as with George. Bad has approached the King many times.

Left in defeat many times.

His morals are strict when it comes to  _ language _ , yet he’s opportunistic, clinging to whoever will offer the best outcomes in battle, shifting with the tides of war. He’s determined. Motivated, but he always changes. It’s not impulsive - unlike Sapnap, who acts when he sees fit - but controlled flexibility. Maybe that’s why he confuses the Hell out of Sapnap. 

Dream’s intense emerald gaze flits over all of them, as if debating whether to continue. Sapnap lifts a brow. “Need something?” 

“You seem busy.” 

“No, go ahead. I can put aside even drawing dicks on Tommy’s wanted poster for you.” It’s said scathingly, but George still turns to him almost hopefully, curious. Still wanting him to stay. 

“I hope Tommy comes after you with an axe,” Dream says. The joke falls flat. Sapnap finds Quackity brushed against his arm, quietly pledging his allegiance, and is suddenly grateful for his companionship. 

It also hurts. That used to be him and Dream, back to back, fighting off monsters. 

Now Dream just looks at him helplessly. In a rush, he remembers. 

Those old, wistful words.  _ “And for the record, I’m truly sorry for what’s going to happen.”  _

Now the storm is over their heads. Watching. Waiting. 

Poised to break. 

“George?” 

“Hm?” 

“I don’t think you should be King anymore.” 

The world pauses. 

It’s always been Dream who holds George’s fate in his palm. It’s always been Dream pulling the strings, guiding George through his rule. Everyone with an ounce of sense knows that George is never the one truly in control - and today, he’s slipping out of Dream’s grasp. 

“What?” His voice is barely a whisper. 

Sapnap can tell that George is reminding himself that Dream claimed to have no care for him. He knows, because he’s telling himself the same thing. It’s difficult to envision those hateful words coming from Dream’s lips. It’s still so new to him to see such cool, unflinching anger in those eyes - although today, he is masked. It’s for the best. Those buttoned eyes on his mask are unforgiving, unyielding. It spares Sapnap the terror of confronting Dream himself, only this strange new character he’s playing. It’s only that that chains him to the grass, helpless, only able to watch as George paces forward slightly. 

“I  _ said,  _ I don’t think you can be King anymore, George.” He spreads his arms, eyes flitting to each party present. Bad. Quackity. And finally, Sapnap. Studying them - marking them as either a threat or not. “You’re not deaf, I know that much.”

Sapnap’s hand drifts to the axe by his side. His preferred weapon is flames, but he’s not wholly defenseless. And it’s not Dream’s style to accept bribes in exchange for assassinations - that’s more Punz - but he inclines his chin and bolt of fear seizes Sapnap.  _ What…?  _

“It’s… just a proposition.” But the steel in his voice suggests it’s anything but a choice for George. 

“Why?” he demands. “What did I-” 

“Well, do you  _ want  _ to be King?” 

No matter how much George complains about his position, wishes that he could be only George, Sapnap knows he’s secretly torn. He  _ likes  _ being King. He likes that power, and responsibility, and he likes the thrill of being himself, too. 

Quackity and Bad watch, wide eyed. They both have heard what Dream has said. They’ve both listened to him discard his friends. 

“George?” Quackity says meekly, when he doesn’t answer immediately. 

“Do you…  _ not  _ want me to be King?” 

Dream grits his teeth, as if it’s an effort to get out every word. “It’s best… if you’re…  _ not.”  _

“What, because now I mean nothing to you, you can’t control me?” 

George doesn’t pull off an antagonist character  _ too  _ well. In Sapnap’s eyes, he’s always been too good for that. It doesn’t seem convincing. He’s frustrated, but not entirely angry. He’s still searching for a reason to forgive Dream, to tempt him to apologise.

“No. No, that’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” 

“People are trying to  _ kill  _ you, George. People are already burning your house and looting you and trying to  _ get to you.  _ Let’s face it. Before you had this power, you were practically invisible. No one gave a fuck about you - and now you’re King, you’re a target. You’re someone they can hurt. You were nothing.” 

“I  _ am  _ nothing to you. That’s what you said. I’m nothing.” 

“You’re my King-” 

“Maybe you should’ve been here to protect me from the ones trying to hurt me, Dream, if you cared  _ that much.  _ Huh?” His voice is still so soft. So tentative. Trying to find a way to love him, and keep loving him. 

“I can’t be everywhere, all the time. I’m not your only knight, so don’t pin this on me.” And with that, his gaze falls onto Sapnap through the mask, and doesn’t let go.

“Are you implying I don’t take care of my King?” Sapnap huffs, hand hovering dangerously close to his axe. “You telling me I’m shit at my job?” 

“All I’m saying is… is… is that George is getting hurt for no good reason. And it’ll keep happening, unless I do something about it.”

“Wow, Dream,” Sapnap breathes, and in that moment he forgets that he’s speaking to a God. He’s speaking to a friend who has continued to love and betray them - and he’s shattering from the force of every word that tumbles from his lips, every bit of poisonous false sympathy. “Wow. You’re such a  _ hero.  _ Such a  _ good guy.  _ You get to be the protagonist, once again, my friend, and secure your own story. Who cares if you remove your beloved George from the picture, huh, as long as you get to be his hero? You can’t do everything for him.” 

George is silent, watching him so carefully, so warily, so that if he stirs, he might unleash every bit of Sapnap’s anger that he’s keeping barely contained.

“I think you’ve been doing this for so long, George, your two-faced act is getting old. You think you can be one person to Sapnap, one person to me? No. You’re a part of this - this stupid  _ ragtag  _ nation, this-” 

“Mexican L’Manburg,” Quackity offers, watching Dream intently.

“Yes.  _ That.  _ You’re practically running the damn thing,  _ and  _ you think you can still be King!” 

“I can-” 

“You’re not being neutral here, George. This is for the good of the Kingdom - to let go of your position.”

“So this isn’t for my benefit.”

“It’s for everyone’s benefit, including you.” His voice softens, slightly, cracking. “I don’t want to watch you die.” 

“I’m not dying, Dream.” His protest is so small. 

“If this is a part of some lesson, some moral you’re trying to teach him, maybe find another way.” Quackity is surprisingly stern, and Sapnap feels as if in his obsession with both Dream and George, he’s barely bothered to reflect on his other relationships. The things that make him  _ George.  _ El Rapids, and Quackity, is a part of that. 

“It’s not. I’m entirely serious. And I’m not exactly asking, anymore, George. Stop avoiding the question.” 

“He’s not answering because you’re being an asshole, you-” 

Dream cuts Sapnap off with a glare, and even Bad barely stirs to scold them. Even he understands the intensity of the moment, and he pushes off the wall from where he was silently observing them. In an instant, they’re on two sides of the path. Sapnap, Quackity and George - Bad, lingering in the middle, and Dream. Alone. Head bowed, not in defeat, but in triumph. 

“And you think this is for the best?” George murmurs. 

“Yes.” 

“... Do I even get a choice anymore? Do I have to choose who I am, now, without even knowing? I’m  _ both,  _ Dream. I’m a King. And I’m also  _ this.”  _ He gestures loosely to Quackity and Sapnap. “Do I really have to choose?”

“You tell me, George.” 

His voice cracks, whining slightly. “Is it even possible to just  _ resign?”  _

“Sure, it is.” 

“It’s called abdication,” Bad puts in. “You would abdicate your throne, George.”

“I’d just move your… er… Kingship to someone else.” And for the first time, Dream looks absolutely guilty, and this, he knows, is what breaks George. Not his rejection, but his replacement. 

“Who?” 

“I’ll talk to Eret.” 

Quackity swears under his breath. Sapnap lifts his chin. “Like Hell you will.” 

“Did you forget about why you removed Eret in the first place, Dream?” Quackity snarls. 

Because Dream’s always been in control, playing his game of chess over the board of the universe. He must feel like a God again, being able to take a King and knock him out with a single breath. He’s the one moving, acting, making change, guiding them all through his fantasies. 

And it is them who blindly follow the God into the dark. 

“There was less violence when Eret was King,” Bad says quietly, awkwardly, breaking the silence.

“Peace,” Dream adds, “is what we could all use a taste of right now.” 

“Fuck peace,” George spits, and it’s got surprising venom to it. His gentle rainfall is shattered, leaving a churning black sky in its wake.

“And  _ that,  _ right there, is why you can’t be King. You’re not exactly neutral, and you’re starting wars that you have no intention of finishing. You’re allying with El Rapids, a rival nation,  _ and  _ claiming to be loyal to your own Kingdom, too.  _ That  _ is why you’re targeted.  _ That  _ is why I won’t have you in power any longer.”

George is quiet. Sapnap doesn’t miss his pale hand curled into a fist at his side - and neither does Dream. 

“Don’t you want to go after Tommy, get revenge, without any strings attached?” he croons. “If you… if you’re no longer a King, we can work together on that, me and you.” His voice drops. “We can be together.” 

“Oh.” 

Sapnap feels the world tilt from under his feet. 

“Why are they trying to kill me?” George mumbles. 

“Because… well, Technoblade doesn’t like governments, I guess. And… everyone else…” Dream looks down. “They don’t like  _ me.”  _

When George doesn’t reply, he continues hastily, “but they wouldn’t be able to hurt Eret that way, since he and I… don’t always see eye to eye. But they can hurt you like that. Because they know…” 

He hesitates. 

“They know how I feel about you.”

All because of that foolish, foolish dance that George guided him into. But if it mattered that much, he could have protested. Could have said no. But he allowed himself that brief moment with George, using it as a weapon to taunt Sapnap - and now they’re here. 

Oh, they’re far from the children they used to be. Maybe Sapnap is still fire, George is still rain, and Dream is still - 

Still Death. 

But now those kernels of power inside of them have been honed to hate one another, to distrust those closest to them. Now, Sapnap is aflame with his hatred, his frustrations. Now, he doesn’t leash his fury inside of him. 

“George?” Quackity whispers. “Maybe… maybe you could... you could just be in El Rapids. Maybe you  _ could  _ give it up.” 

“But… I…”

“This was meant to be a quick thing,” Dream says awkwardly, dipping his head to all of them. That would imply a mutual respect. 

Sapnap has no such thing for his old friend. 

“I don’t care if this was supposed to be quick. If you thought you could just give a middle finger to George and be on your merry way, you were wrong, Dream. You can’t run away from this. Not this time.” 

“I don’t  _ run away  _ from anything-” 

“You do. George? Do you remember what he said? About us? About  _ you?  _ Don’t let him pretend he ever fucking cared about you.” 

Because Sapnap had been willing to let George choose - to follow the path he deemed suitable for him and him alone. If he wanted Dream so badly, then so be it. 

But he won’t let George choose wrong - not now that Dream has said those awful things about the man he claims to love. 

“You said I mean nothing to you,” George reflects, voice small.

“I didn’t mean that.” 

“Then why did you say it?” 

“I’m only asking you to step down because I  _ care  _ about you.” 

“You’re asking him to step down because you’ve realised that none of your little plans will work while he still has the throne,” Sapnap spits. He feels his voice rising, sparking, singing. “As if you really care.” 

“George understands,” Dream pleads, and George has been so silent that he’s almost falling for the illusion that George is falling in love with Dream all over again. And believes him.

Sapnap takes a step. 

“Do you? Do you understand, George?” 

_ “Sapnap!  _ **_Stop._ ** _ ”  _

The world freezes for the God to rear back, and fling his mask from his face, ripping it with a snap of the metal band in his fingers. For him to toss it away and show those green eyes, sparking with nothing but pure contempt. Freckles, like flecks of ash and rubble in the shadow of the clouds. Friend. Brother. 

Enemy. 

“What are you trying to do here?” he sneers. “Stop trying to  _ divide  _ us.” 

“Me?” He sputters out a delirious laugh, unhinged, yet landing precisely where he wants it to as he strides out to come nose to nose with Dream. “ _ Me? Me  _ divide  _ us?”  _

“Oh, come on now, Sapnap. As if you think this will make George love you, as if he owes you some  _ debt  _ for sticking up for you? You’re lonely, and sad, and  _ jealous,  _ and I think it’s time for you to see the truth.” 

_ Truth.  _

All of it aimed directly at his heart and it  _ hits _ . Dream’s been his partner in crime for so long, he knows exactly what to do to make him hurt. To see him suffer. To watch him fall. 

“You are not loved, Sapnap.” 

There’s a blind roaring in his ears. 

“So  _ give it up,  _ already.” 

Sapnap burns, and it eats him alive. With every pillar of smoke, another shred of his confidence, his arrogance, that cockiness that keeps him stable is peeled away, and Dream, the God, the mortal, peers into his soul and sees everything that he tries so desperately to hide. 

George is looking at him, and that gleam in his eyes is unreadable.

He barely hears the new pair of footsteps, the thick heels of dark boots clicking on the path as Dream beckons to the stranger. A deep voice cuts through the emptiness. 

“Hello, Dream. Gentlemen.” 

“You’re here.” 

“And why,  _ exactly _ , was I summoned?” 

“I think it’s time to discuss… er… you being King again, Eret.” 

They can feel Eret’s shock, startled into silence. “Ah.” 

“Don’t talk about me like I’m gone,” George whispers. “Dream.  _ Dream. _ I’m right here, I’m still-”

_ “Shut up,  _ George.” 

“Give me the word, and I’ll cut them,” Sapnap rasps, throat dry. He’s choked, chained.    
  


“Stop  _ dividing  _ us, Sapnap, you-” 

“I stand by George.” 

“And we all know  _ why.”  _

“Because he’s my friend, and my King, although clearly that doesn’t fucking matter to you anymore.” 

“Eret is my King,” Dream says breathlessly. “George is my friend.” 

And it’s with an unrivalled storm that George lifts his head and spits into the silence. “No.  _ I’m not.”  _

The sky erupts. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ It’s raining again.  _

_ The boys take shelter in the hollowed out trunk of an old, rotting tree, trying to arrange themselves comfortably on the jagged roots. Usually, they’d fit easily, but their party isn’t just Dream and Sapnap. Not anymore. _

_ About two weeks ago, they stumbled on a kid - literally stumbled, since Dream and Sapnap had been tree-hopping and had almost killed the frail thing where he was clinging to a skinny branch.  _

_ Hiding from the monsters, he said.  _

_ A child with flowers woven into his dark hair and a storm in his heart.  _

_ He introduced himself as George.  _

_ Dream and Sapnap had a year to collect themselves, to learn everything about each other. They know how to fight together. How to know what the other will do before they even know it themselves. Months and months to become fast friends - and both of them were possessive enough over each other to be reluctant to allow a stranger into their ranks. _

_ But on that first night in the dark, damp woods, George taught them how to forage, and told them what was safe to collect in those wild, foreign woods. There were some things that Sapnap and Dream simply didn’t understand, and nature was not one of them. Even Dream, who seemed so wise beyond his years, was effortlessly struck useless by the wild. It was unpredictable, and unreliable, and Sapnap knew by that point that Dream liked things he could control.  _

_ So Sapnap made them a fire and George taught them how to cook. _

_ Perhaps it was then, watching George with his arms full of mushrooms, flowers lopsided in his hair - a petal caught on the tip of his nose - and covered in dirt and grass, that both Dream and Sapnap decided they wanted him around.  _

_ Now, they’d be fools to leave him behind. _

_ George wants to go home. He says it so often, so breathlessly, lips trembling as if he’s about to wail every time, that Dream bursts out in frustration one day that they’ll take him home. They’ll guide him to what he so desperately wants, protect him from the monsters. George visibly hesitates, but says that he’s willing to try.  _

_ “I want to make things right,” he says, whatever that means. _

_ They’ve been raised on tales of Gods, Kings and Queens.  _

_ They’ll be his knights.  _

_ The rain doesn’t help things, though, forcing them into the hollow tree, shivering and damp from the cold. George has suffered from the weather more than any of them, not used to such bitter conditions - he comes from a rich family, he says. He has a garden back home. He’s polite, soft spoken, well mannered, and he flinches at Sapnap’s filthy mouth. He tries to keep his swearing on a tight leash, to make George comfortable - despite how childish it seems, he has the gut instinct to keep him happy. If he’s content, maybe he’ll stay with them.  _

_ But George isn’t quite like them.  _

_ For days, George has been sleeping away from them, curled on his side and keeping his distance, as if afraid of the other boys, but tonight he’s crammed next to Sapnap. He has no choice. _

_ Sapnap is the first to fall asleep - he always is. And he’s spent so much time with Dream to know his place, where his head fits against his friend’s chest. Where his heartbeat lures him into his dreams, legs curled awkwardly beneath him.  _

_ Dream, though, won’t sleep for a while. He thinks he needs to keep watch - it’s his duty, he thinks, and he takes pride in staying alert, although he’s likely drowsy, he’ll fight it for another hour yet.  _

_ George watches him with those warm eyes intently, trying to decipher him.  _

_ Most of his flowers have fallen out by now, but there’s still a few stray petals settled deep in his dark hair. Dream doesn’t bother pulling them out.  _

_ George is determined to stay awake. _

_ “You can sleep,” Dream says solemnly. He’s so serious, for a child. George is older than both of them, but the tongue Dream uses is unfamiliar and deep. “I don’t mind. I’ll protect you, don’t worry.” _

_ When George is silent, he says again, “you can sleep.”  _

_ And George, somewhat reluctantly, does. He curls himself so that his back is across Sapnap’s lap, and his hair brushes Dream’s legs. He doesn’t intend to sleep at all, but there’s something soothing about the casual way that Dream leans his arm on his head, hand in his hair.  _

_ Sapnap shifts in his sleep.  _

_ George tells himself that he won’t let himself fall asleep so close to them. _

_ But he does, anyway.  _

_ Some things are inevitable.  _

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Dream and Sapnap hide behind a trash-can. It’s been months since they promised to take George home. _

_ And they fulfilled their vow, although it took longer than expected.  _

_ Neither of them want to say goodbye.  _

_ They peek around the edge of the alley, watching George. He looks the part for a kid who’s been roaming the wild for the past few months, scruffy, dirty. But he’s collected flowers for the occasion - blue ones, so when he holds them in his pale hands, he can really  _ **_see_ ** _ them. Admire their colour. He’s colourblind, they discovered.  _

_ When the door opens, he holds up those blue flowers before he even says a word.  _

_ When Dream and Sapnap look at each other, the same look of despair is reflected in their gazes. They’ve gotten so attached to this scruffy child. They don’t want to let go.  _

_ There’s a man in the door; they watch him hold a hand out for the flowers, and hold them in his fist, studying them intently. They let out a mutual sigh of relief as the man steps back slightly and George strikes forward, as if to go inside. He doesn’t look back.  _

_ It’s probably for the best.  _

_ George is back where he belongs - and now it’s just the two of them, alone, again.  _

_ They only look away for a second. But they hear a child’s shriek, and a muffled thud on the stones, and they are moving.  _

_ In an instant, the pair of them are working together seamlessly - Sapnap, to crouch next to George, skin grazed and bleeding where he picks himself up from the ground. And Dream, to brandish a sword far too big for him at the man who shoved him, barking threats on the doorstep of the house.  _

_ “Death’ll come and ruin your fucking life! Death is coming for you! I’ll fucking kill ya!”  _

_ “Don’t fucking touch him!” _

_ The old man is yelling at them, warning him to never come back, and in an instant, both Dream and Sapnap understand. It’s not the first time. George shudders slightly under his fingers.  _

_ George was never lost of his own choosing. He was no runaway, not like Sapnap. He was not stranded in a different body, like Dream.  _

_ No. He’s been tossed aside.  _

_ They pick him up and carry him, Dream on one side and Sapnap on the other, away from the damned town and that ugly, rich house. From where they run, they can see a glimpse of George’s precious garden, the plants he tenderly cared for drooping slightly.  _

_ Sapnap ducks away to steal flowers from that very garden, and when he’s chased out with a broom, being called a ‘filthy thief’, he merely flashes George’s parents his middle finger and bolts.  _

_ That night, they try messily and clumsily to replicate what George taught them. Sapnap weaves blue flowers - blue, the colour he sees best - into his hair. Dream tries to gather mushrooms for a stew. Sapnap lights a fire, and Dream awkwardly tries to cook. They both try to patch up what wounds they can. George is quiet through it all.  _

_ Always so silent.  _

_ “Thank you.”  _

_ “I told you we’d protect you,” Dream says simply, as if reluctant to show any kind of love for the boy. Sapnap doesn’t know where Dream came from, but it’s a very different place to what he’s familiar with, he’s sure. But then he softens, and he puts his arms around George gingerly, trying not to hurt him. “Are you okay hanging around with misfits like us?” _

_ Sapnap huddles against him, head on his shoulder, curling into his warmth. _

_ “I love misfits like you,” George manages.  _

  
  
  


* * *

_ It’s raining again.  _

_ Dream lets it beat him senseless.  _

_ He deserves it, for this. _

_ But if George is okay, it’s worth it.  _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Finally, inevitably, it begins to rain. 

When George walks, Sapnap walks with him. Across the wooden path, away from the castle. Away from home. Quackity lingers close by, elusive, darting through the rain and flitting in and out of sight like a spirit. And Dream trails them. 

With a deliberate foot, he stamps down on his mask on the grass and cleaves it down the middle. Splitting that smile apart. “George.” 

The wind is howling, mournful, keening into the open sky. The Gods laugh at their stupidity, these young, naive mortals. They laugh at Dream, in particular, their old brother, the one they abandoned to the world and cursed to fall in and out of love. 

They laugh at him, lying to protect those he loves when everything, really 

“ _ George. _

He stops. 

“You’re being a child, George. You’re throwing a tantrum because I took away something that was never really yours.” 

Was it ever about the Kingship, though, really? 

Sapnap feels George’s knuckles brush against his own, a tentative question - and with his back turned, not acknowledging Dream, he takes George’s hand and squeezes it. If he was smart, he would stay with Dream - Dream, with the better odds, the God controlling the game and every player on the board. He’d ally himself with victory if he was clever. 

But Sapnap has always been a misfit. 

Unpredictable; unreliable. 

He’s been crossing the line, testing the limits, for all of his life. A runaway, a stray, a knight. Who does he want to be? 

He’s been a pyre, relentlessly burning. He’s been anything but what is expected of him. He lets the wind carry him from one thrill to the next, he is a wanderer, an adventurer -  _ reckless,  _ Dream would chastise. But it’s always been George to keep him steady. He’s always had that relentless rain by his side.

It’s always him. 

“George, I- what can I do to make it right? What can I do to fix it?” Dream is pleading, now. A God, on his knees. 

“Leave him alone,” he says.

“What can I do!?” 

_ “You’ve done enough.”  _

Even when Dream whines through his teeth, barely heard over the storm, Sapnap does not break or bend. He won’t crumble. He’s stronger than that.

George is walking, and he doesn’t let go of Sapnap as he moves. 

“George,” Dream calls; he has to shout, now. Has to shriek over the jagged thunder that shakes them in its fist. 

“Don’t turn around.” 

George bites his lip, and tears swarm his vision. 

_ “Don’t turn around.”  _

“Don’t let him see you cry.” 

“Don’t let him know it hurts.” 

He’s talking to himself, now. 

He burns, on and on, and he doesn’t let go of George’s hand.

He’s saved it for long enough. And as the rain wails down on them, Sapnap lifts his chin, and lets himself cry.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Dream fixes a shattered half of his cruel, unfaltering mask back on his face. His lips are set in a cool line. Footsteps echo around him. _

_ And so Icarus is left alone. _

_ As he roars his curses to the Gods, to the sky, he knows nothing will ever be done. From the day he was born anew on this filthy world, he was breathing only to suffer. He’s been living only to die.  _

_ His curse roams on, and on, because Death will never get to love - not truly. He shrieks his mournful, cracking song to wind and sea, knowing they’ll carry it to his brothers who cast him aside, who determined that he would fall, but never be able to spare his lover.  _

_ Fate is cruel that way.  _

_ If he loves, George will die.  _

_ So he lets him go.  _

_ Such things are inevitable. _

_ He tilts his head to the sky, and lets the tears fall. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So despite what you have learned  
> in songs for which you’d take a bullet,  
> you won’t find objective truth  
> in a final rhyming couplet."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading 'save it for a rainy day', I really hope you enjoyed! Keep in mind that this is all in the context of /dsmp and the characters themselves <3 Comments are always appreciated <3


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